


The Tenth Muse

by Vulpesmellifera



Series: The Tenth Muse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Don't copy to another site, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Mycroft Feels, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, anthea ships it, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: Mycroft sees things other people can’t. Lights, spectres, shades, demons, phantasms, and creatures that no one else can see. Voices no one else can hear. Colours eddying around people’s bodies, visible only to his eyes.It isn't deduction for Mycroft; it's a living nightmare that leads to self-imposed isolation. When Sherlock "dies," Mycroft finds himself reaching out for a golden slice of happiness, just one person to call his own in a landscape of horrors.





	1. Euterpe

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thank yous to my betas: [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom) and [ReynardinePttr](https://twitter.com/ReynardinePttr). Rey also provided britpicking, which is just awesome. Betas are true gold, and I am indebted to these two.
> 
> Please check out bluebellofbakerstreet's gorgeous [cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18160820) for this story!

 

_Here and there my days are wasted, shorn of leaf and stript of fruit:_

_Vexed because of songs half-spoken, maiden with the marvelous lute!_

_Vexed because of songs half-shapen, smit with fire and mixed with pain:_

_Part of thee and part of Sorrow, like a sunset pale with rain._

_-_ Henry Kendall, _Euterpe,_  1920

  


The coffin gleams before him.

Mycroft stares. In his mind, he’s reviewing the events that have lead them to this moment. How, with someone like him, with his ability, has it come to _this?_

Mycroft sees things other people can’t. It isn’t deduction; that skill belongs to his brother. Sherlock, jealous of Mycroft’s foreknowledge of near everything, has spent decades honing his skills in observation. However, Mycroft sees things that _aren’t there_. Well, that aren’t there for anyone else to see. Or hear.

Or smell.

It began before Sherlock was born. Mycroft saw a glowing wisp follow his mother about, playful in its tumbles and swoops through the air, sinking into her stomach before appearing again. A baby’s giggle sounded in his ear. Eventually the wisp took root, and her lower torso carried a light glow along the edges of her body that differed from the green of her own light.

“When will the baby be born?” He’d asked. She was standing at the kitchen table, measuring out sugar.

His mother frowned, pausing in her calculations, her eyes a kaleidoscope of chartreuse and blue as she stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The light, like a will-o-wisp. It’s been floating around you, and its laughter sounds like a baby’s.” He pointed to her belly.

Violet Holmes shook her head as her green emanation dimmed. “You’re imagining things, Mycroft. You know better than that.”

“But, Mummy-”

“I won’t hear another word.” Violet levelled the sugar in her scoop, and turned to the counter to finish mixing the dry ingredients. Mycroft stared at the glow surrounding her, wondering how he had upset her.

Mycroft remembers how he would often become aware of her staring at him, her brow furrowed and her mouth flat. He did everything he could to please her: be a good student, behave for his parents, be quiet and unobtrusive, eat all his dinner.

Mycroft grips the handle of his umbrella, thinking of how sometimes he thought his mother looked at him with fear. There’s a minister droning on in the background, but he pays no attention. He’s avoiding looking at anyone at the funeral. Because he still sees things.

Shadows that unfurl around some strangers. Blurs of colour around others. Auras, some might call them, and though Mycroft cringes to use such a New Age term, he’s never researched whether there is something less _woo,_ more scientific. Mycroft sees hued light emanating from almost everyone, and those without these telling colours he avoids. (He refers to those people as “blanks,” and they are disconcerting). Sometimes shadows take shape and become creatures or symbols, and when Mycroft cares to listen, they speak.

Sometimes, there are odours.

As a child, he began drawing what he saw. His mother found his stack of drawings and threw them into the fireplace.

He hid when his parents had guests at the house. Too many of them were trailed by creatures that tried to speak to the boy if they caught him staring. At school, it was easier, since most of the other children exuded only colours, and no phantoms. Usually. Mycroft didn’t understand what he was seeing at first, but he soon learned that some of his classmates suffered abuses at home, that some of his teachers harboured old wounds, and a few were concealing dark secrets. The latter he avoided ever being alone with.

Whenever he tried to tell someone else, they looked at him strangely, or outright accused him of lying. He learned to keep quiet about it, and he was particularly quiet about revelations learned from his parents’ guests.

Mycroft is smart. Very smart. But he knows part of the gain in his knowledge is accessible to him, and no one else.

Until James Moriarty. Moriarty is - _was_ \- one of those blanks, though his eyes had hinted at danger. It wasn’t until Mycroft dreamt about him that he got a sense of what he was dealing with. An eight-legged arthropod, a spider, though the thorax and abdomen were fused so closely it suggested the body of a tick or mite. The spider aspect was clinched by the existence of spinnerets at the rear end, poised for spinning web. When it turned its eyes on Mycroft, they were the glinting eyes of James Moriarty. Mycroft had the feeling that as he was staring at this giant creature before him, Moriarty was staring back - and could see Mycroft, perhaps from his own dream. Under one of Moriarty’s pedipalps, the forearm of the spider, Sherlock lay still and breathless.

Mycroft awoke and began planning. Those plans, no matter how meticulous, twisted and lead to this day.

Now, the coffin gleams before him. He stands far from the mourners. His parents declined to attend; they refuse to take part in the charade, though they understand the necessity. John Watson and Mrs. Hudson are there, but Mycroft doesn’t find himself able to look them in the eye. John’s demon is back, a gargoyle-like creature perched on his injured shoulder, casting a stony glare. Mrs. Hudson’s aura is heavy with blues and greys.

Standing there, pretending not to see the creatures and the colours, he is overcome by the scent of coffee and cake, the vanilla kind with rich buttercream icing. He recognises the phantom scent, and inhales with pleasure. The golden glow of the detective inspector is beside him.

“Mr. Holmes,” Greg Lestrade greets him, his voice a low scrape of gravel. He pauses. Mycroft imagines the inspector is worried about saying the wrong thing. DI Lestrade goes on. “This is terrible, and I’m sorry.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow at him. The greying man has shadows under his eyes, and his skin looks pale, too pale. His aura is dim and his shoulders sag. The suit he’s wearing is cheap but freshly pressed. A shade of burnt caramel streaks through the light around him, a slip of shadow in the otherwise brilliant glow. Mycroft hates to see it there.

“You blame yourself,” Mycroft says.

The inspector’s face falters. He casts his eyes to the ground. “I tried-”

“I know your part. You were positioned between a rock and a hard place, as they say.” Mycroft looks to the horizon. Gravestone after gravestone, many occluded by large pines and small deciduous trees. “I am familiar with such a position. Moriarty was too smart. He was playing an entirely different game than Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t know it. Couldn’t know.”

The other man clears his throat. “Yes, well, um-”, and his aura flickers. It catches Mycroft’s attention. DI Lestrade shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing my services now. But, if you ever need a sympathetic ear, I’m your man.”

Mycroft feels warm. The air is crisp and cool that day, but Mycroft knows that in the presence of the detective inspector, he has never felt anything but warmth.

“Well, be seein’ ya, Mr. Holmes.” The inspector turns to go.

It is only after he says “Detective Inspector,” that Mycroft arrives at a realisation. When Sherlock and he planned this deception, he’d forgotten he’d have no reason, no well-conceived pretense, to see this man up close again. It isn’t fair. And no, life is not always fair, but Mycroft has been cleaning up after Sherlock for years.  _When will I get my due?_

_Attachment._

Mycroft frowns at himself. It is no good to care, but his armour against the softer emotions is stronger than Sherlock’s. Mycroft isn’t seeking a relationship with this man. Merely, a mutually satisfactual connection. Sherlock has always been the more emotional of the two brothers, as much as he tried to hide it. Mycroft can remain a master of his person.

“Mr. Holmes?” The inspector is watching him with those whisky-brown eyes.

“Will you join me for coffee afterward?”

DI Lestrade’s mouth almost turns up in a smile. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Mycroft looks down at the ground and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story for the [Sherlock Challenge](https://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/), whose January 2019 prompt was "10."


	2. Calliope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft plans his revenge.

 

_Here rise to life again, dead poetry!_

_Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours,_

_And here Calliope, strike a higher key,_

_Accompanying my song with that sweet air_

_which made the wretched Magpies feel a blow_

_that turned all hope of pardon to despair_

— Dante Alighieri, " _Purgatorio_ " Canto I: lines 7 to 12, early 14th century

 

Mycroft shakes the rain from his umbrella and enters Scotland Yard. A dark-haired man in a suit is sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby. He has a pink, anvil-shaped birthmark on his forehead, and he’s wearing false eyebrows, though it’s likely only a Holmes brother would notice. He’s pretending to work on a crossword, but his eyes shift around the room. A Cthulhu-esque nightmare sticks to his ankles and has left a wet trail from the front door to the waiting area. The air is noisome with the stench of decay. One fluorescent light flickers overhead.

Mycroft is not often fazed by these kind of visions. He stands tall, his demeanour imperious and aloof, as he intends it to be. Showing awareness of the phantasms can attract their attention, and Mycroft knows this can lead to trouble for him.

It’s been four weeks since the funeral. He’s been by Baker Street and picked up Sherlock’s violin. It now sits on Mycroft’s desk next to his tablet and stylus, and his mind goes back to it, again and again. The violin was a gift from him to Sherlock, and it's a favoured memory: Sherlock learning how to play. His rich purple aura would swirl wildly with other colours, depending on his mood. He was magnificent in his playing, and Mycroft couldn’t feel prouder. That pride dampens when thinking of what Sherlock must do now, a contemporary epic hero fighting a many-headed beast, and without his violin for solace.

With the instrument safely in his possession - he’d waited until John Watson moved out, to avoid potential confrontation - Mycroft is meeting Detective Inspector Lestrade for dinner. They were supposed to be meeting for coffee for the fourth time, but DI Lestrade - _damnit, Mycroft, just call me Greg already_ \- had a last minute collar that required paperwork.

As he stands there, low, eldritch whispers come to his attention. He peers down the hall. A constable sees him looking, and she smiles. “Can I help you, sir?” A happy, yellow glow surrounds her, though black spots appear at the height of her lungs. The smell of antiseptic surrounds her. A smoker, likely, and she’s trying to quit because she’s sick.

“I am waiting for Detective Inspector Lestrade. He is expecting me.” He takes out his Whitehall personnel badge and shows her, not looking at the overexposed photo of himself. He knows it makes him look more pallid than he already is, with a severe hairline and cold eyes. “I am Mycroft Holmes.”

“I’m Constable Margaret Cooper. He mentioned he’d have someone waiting for him. Said you could come up. Shall I take you to his office?” Her smile seems genuine. She’s attractive, with brown corkscrew curls and shining, hazel eyes. The hair is a wig.

“I’ve only been waiting here thirty minutes already,” the dark-haired man with the birthmark gripes from his seat. The squalid creature below his chair gurgles, sending a shiver down Mycroft’s spine, though he doesn’t show it.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “If you please.” He smiles at Constable Cooper, pleased at the thought that Greg remembered him, told others, and invited him in. Greg had suffered a demotion at work while others were reviewing the cases he’d solved with Sherlock’s help. The stress of it washed out his aura, and Mycroft felt it was his responsibility to bring back some of its former resplendence. He has had the inspector reinstated and his suspension ended, though Greg remains on probation. Greg was informed yesterday and moved back to his office today. He knows nothing of Mycroft’s involvement. The only thing he knows about Mycroft is what they’ve talked about while having coffee - desultory topics such as members of parliament, football, films, and books.

As they approach the door leading to the offices of the Serious Crimes division, the whispers continue. They stop and start, stop and start again, at an increasing volume. Just outside the door, Philip Anderson stands with his shoulders slumped. One hand presses against his temple while the other sits on his hip.

“Hey, Anderson,” the constable greets him. “Headache?”

Constable Cooper doesn’t see it. Mycroft, of course, does. Superimposed over Mr. Anderson’s shoulders and head is the silhouette of a black bird with white flanks. Its black tail is so long it touches the linoleum floor.

“Coop,” Mr. Anderson waves a hand at them, his weaselly face pinched, skin paler than normal. “Somethin’ like that.” The magpie cackles, and his shoulders twitch.

_Curious. Does he hear the magpie’s whisper?_

While Mycroft doesn’t fault Greg for his part in Sherlock’s downfall, he knows forensic officer Philip Anderson and Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan were key in bringing it about. He has plans for them, but seeing Anderson before him with the omen of his fate hanging over his head, he wonders if he might adjust those plans.

DC Cooper and Mr. Anderson have a friendly exchange while she opens the door and ushers Mycroft through. Anytime the forensic officer is talking, the magpie is silent. When he ceases talking, the baleful whispers begin, and the look on Mr. Anderson’s face grows pained. Mycroft thinks of the violin, separated from his brother.

Mycroft hears another whisper ahead of him, though this one is quieter. A tired looking Sally Donovan sits at her desk. The magpie on her shoulder is almost nonexistent. Mycroft frowns. The magpie lifts its head, and looks at Mycroft. “Guilty,” it says, as sure as a mythic Eumenide, but it's smaller than Anderson's, and fading.

Mycroft’s lips quirk. DS Donovan rubs her face and returns to perusing the case file before her. The magpie lowers its head and begins to whisper, and she flicks her hand up, almost as if she were moving back an errant curl. The magpie goes silent.

Mycroft thinks again of the violin left on his desk, feels the taut worry in his chest of not knowing whether Sherlock would ever return to play. He grips the handle of his umbrella, tightens his jaw, and follows Constable Cooper to the DI’s office.

 

* * *

 

 

Over dinner that night, Mycroft makes soft inquiries into the people working for Greg. Greg shakes his head. “I think they trust me. They’ve gotta trust me, y’know?” He leans back in his chair and takes a sip from his wine glass. “Sally, well, she’s pissed, and I think she’s pissed because she might feel guilty, but then, sometimes, I think…”

Once Greg has trailed off, Mycroft nods. “I understand, Greg. Guilt is distressing, so she won’t allow it.” He’s ignoring the spectre at the next table. A slim, older woman with poker straight hair parted in the middle and thick-framed glasses doesn’t know she’s sitting next to her ex-girlfriend - or ex-wife, perhaps, they wear matching rings on the left hand - whose knife wounds leak blood from her chest. He never knows if what he sees is an actual ghost or the manifestation of the flesh-and-blood person’s mindset. He doesn’t want to know.

“Yeah, it’s something like that.” Greg twirls his pasta on his fork. “I don’t know why I’m talking with you about this. Jesus, you’ve got to feel like crap hearing me talk about the people who-”

“No, Greg.” Mycroft wipes his mouth with his napkin. “It’s quite alright. I don’t wish to never speak of Sherlock. If Ms. Donovan is feeling guilty, I am almost comforted, in a way.”

“That’s just it, though!” Greg replies and drops his fork on his plate. “I’m not sure she does feel guilty. She’s been gunning for my job, yeah? And she almost had it. I’m shocked I’m back, but I think she resents me for it.”

Mycroft’s mouth flattens. The spectre with the knife wounds is leaning toward the woman, moaning as if in pain. He wonders what Greg would say if he told them that the woman at the next table over murdered her wife, and would likely confess if pressed about it.

He stares at his manicured fingernails against the white linen tablecloth and decides to tell him something else. “The thing I have admired most about you, Greg, is that you are both honest and humble. You are driven to ensure the safety of London’s citizens, and to bring those who threaten that safety to justice. Your moral compass is steady.” Mycroft feels nervous, he realises, but the need to say these things scrabbles around inside him. “You could have thrown Sherlock out on his ear, but you listened to him; you utilised his skills as a resource on unsolvable cases to bring about justice. You defended him against colleagues and your superiors. And you didn’t squabble over the credit, you simply thanked your team, and counted Sherlock among them.

“Ms. Donovan, if I may be so bold, is an ambitious person. I cannot fault her for her ambition, as we know it isn’t easy for a woman in the police.” Mycroft grips his napkin, watching his knuckles turn white. “However, ambition can make a person a ruthless creature, and in this, Ms. Donovan has crossed a line.”

“It wasn’t just her, Mycroft,” Greg shakes his head, his face weary and lined.

“You speak of Mr. Anderson?” Mycroft remembers the despairing look on the forensic officer’s face as the magpie cackled. He thinks of Sherlock’s violin lined up with the other items on his desk. “I expect he will succumb to his feelings of guilt.”

Greg is watching him with a guarded look in his eye. “You’ve not anything planned for him, have you?”

The moaning at the next table has stopped. Mycroft smiles, thinking of the magpie. “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

 


	3. Clio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tale of cinnamon and buttered toast.

 

_"Clio . . . to thee, O Muse, has been vouchsafed the power to know the_

_hearts of the gods and the ways by which things come to be."_

_-_ Gaius Valerius Flaccus _, Argonautica (_ trans. Mozley _),_ C1st A.D.

  


**_Received 4:22 pm_ **

_Seems Sally’s been shipped out to some tiny town outside_

_Blackpool in need of a detective. She’s right pissed about it._

_U wouldn’t know anything bout that, would u?_

Mycroft reads the text, and then places the mobile to the side on his studio table. To him, it seems a fair trade. After all, she aided in the destruction of a promising career for his little brother who, finally, seemed to have his life balanced on the straight and narrow.  A productive life, even.

It’s been eight weeks since he and the inspector had their meal celebrating Greg’s return to his position. There have been five more coffee meetings, and four other dinners. Mycroft has experienced hitches of breath and an increased pulse rate over the unexpected ease of the friendship. He finds the man attractive, and it’s been a long time since he last struggled with the inconvenient urges of his libido. In more recent years, he kept his focus on his work, and on his personal projects, allowing no time for attractions to build. It’s a rare event that he finds anyone attractive, anyway.

Mycroft sits in his studio, the pages of black and white sketches depicting many of the images he has confronted over the years. No one but Sherlock has stepped inside this room. The scribbles peppering the walls are dark, messy, and hellish. While Sherlock’s upper lip curled when he viewed them, he’s long known of Mycroft’s unusual hobby.

The violin sits at his table, next to the pile of drawings he’s currently categorising. Dusty with charcoal and chalk, he places older drawings into large, leather folios. Here are the portrayals of addictions, and here, manifestations of severe illness. Here, guilt-induced shadows of past crimes. Here the monsters of PTSD, phantoms of long-term depressions, and here are the demons of mental illness. Most people walk around pretending everything is okay. Mycroft knows otherwise.

He makes time for Greg, and his stomach tenses at this. Greg, who smells of baked goods and glows like a sunrise.

_Cinnamon and buttered toast._

_Gilbert._ Mycroft shakes his head. He hates to think of Gilbert, but maybe a little wallowing will fix him of his growing infatuation with the detective inspector.

Gilbert Browning had smelled like cinnamon and buttered toast. The glow around him was heavy with blues and reds, but his face shone with easy smiles. Mycroft was sixteen, and as much as he loathed it when others touched him - _people didn’t know the visage of horror that sometimes peered over their shoulders, weren’t aware of phantom scents of sewage or rot, couldn’t hear their worst secrets aired in rasped confessions_ \- seeing Gilbert Browning made him long for another’s touch _._

The realisation that he was gay didn’t bother him. People already didn’t like him. He was the top of his class and now entered in uni, where he challenged the professors and dismissed other students as not worth his time. But Gilbert Browning was tall, with sculpted cheekbones and broad shoulders. Mycroft could appreciate a set of strong shoulders, and the curve of an athlete’s buttock. Gilbert played rugby on the weekends. He was called “Beast” by his teammates, a reference to the blue-furred Marvel scientist. Gilbert was an aspiring astrophysicist. Not only did the aroma of cinnamon follow him, but he spoke intelligently about the origin of the cosmos and existential philosophy and theoretical science. He was the older brother of Mycroft’s roommate, a tiresome boy with bricks for brains.

Mycroft picked up on Gilbert’s interest in men the very moment they met, though it wasn’t as if Gilbert checked him out. Mycroft had finally shot up in height, but still possessed some of the soft flesh of his boyhood. Gilbert was twenty-one, and had plenty of friends. He was graduating and set to do his masters work on the continent.

Gilbert dated girl after girl, and boasted about his conquests to his little brother. Mycroft ground his teeth and put on his headphones.

When his roommate had gone for the weekend on a camping - _drinking_ \- trip with his mates, Gilbert visited Mycroft. It was late October and the sun was setting.

“Hi.” Gilbert grinned at him, and Mycroft’s stomach flipped.

“Your brother is out for the weekend.” Mycroft readied himself to close the door.

“Yeah, I know. I’m bored. There’s some party going on later tonight, but I got some time to kill. Wanna watch a movie?” Gilbert stepped into the room, forcing Mycroft to walk backwards.

Mycroft glanced at his roommate’s VCR and the accompanying VHS collection. “I suppose?” Mycroft hated the movies his roommate watched.

“Great. I brought one. Won some awards or something.” Gilbert took a VHS tape from his satchel and placed it in the VCR. “Come on, I’ll point the telly at your bed instead of his. We can sit there.” He shoved the boxy television to an angle, pointed at Mycroft’s bed.

“Oh, alright.” Mycroft stiffly slid onto his bed and backed up to lean against the wall, sitting cross-legged by his pillow.

Gilbert sat on the bed, leaving only about a foot between them.

The movie was _Maurice_. Mycroft pretended like it wasn’t one of the most agonising moments of his life to have the object of his lust sit so close to him, while homosexual men admitted their affections for one another on the screen.

When it ended, Gilbert moved closer to him on the bed. “Did you like it?”

Mycroft turned to look at him. Gilbert wouldn’t look him in the eye, and instead stared at his lips. Mycroft lunged forward and kissed Gilbert on the mouth.

Gilbert clutched his shoulders, and Mycroft near melted against the body of the rugby player. The kiss was sloppy and frantic, but Mycroft let Gilbert take control and show him what to do.

It ended with their clothes off and semen on Mycroft’s bedspread. Panting, Mycroft stretched his limbs beside Gilbert, who got up from the bed and started pulling his pants on. “What is it?”

“I’m not out.” Gilbert said. He grabbed his shirt. “You can’t say anything.”

“I won’t.” Mycroft sat up.

“I mean it.”

“I said I won’t.” Mycroft yanked the bedspread up and over his body. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Gilbert looked at him, his aura swirling with colours. Mixed emotions, Mycroft realised. Gilbert popped the movie out of the VCR. “Thanks, man.” He stood up, movie in hand. “Uh, can I keep this movie here? In your stuff?”

“Uh, yes.” Mycroft held a hand out to accept the tape.

“Thanks.” Gilbert handed it to him. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze skittering around the room without landing on Mycroft. “I’ve gotta go.”

Gilbert dated women. And fucked Mycroft. And told his brother about his women when Mycroft wore his headphones, though he could hear every word.

“None of them mean anything, Mycroft. It’s just appearances, y’know?” Gilbert hugged him while they lay in his bed, and reached down his stomach to stroke his penis. “It’s what you and me do that matters.”

Mycroft’s stomach continued to feel sick and he didn’t like the muddled colouring of Gilbert’s aura - it was confusion, and Mycroft didn’t know what Gilbert was confused about. Though the dalliances with women hurt, Mycroft convinced himself that he was the only one that mattered to Gilbert.

Christmas came and went. Mycroft returned to uni from holiday to find his roommate nearly bursting with news from his own family visit.

“Gilbert’s gay!” He exploded. “He’s gay, and he’s got a boyfriend!”

For Mycroft, the room spun, and then a giddy, happy feeling unfurled from his gut, and he grinned. “A boyfriend, eh?” He wondered why Gilbert didn’t tell his brother that it was Mycroft, but then, he thought, Gilbert must be easing his family into it.

“All those birds he bragged about, and the whole time he wanted cock!” The brother brayed. Mycroft blushed, but he felt happier than ever. He had worried about the end of the year, when they would separate, but maybe Gilbert had committed to working it out with Mycroft. He had come out to his family, after all, hadn’t he? He must have wanted to get serious.

Mycroft bloomed with this knowledge and began unpacking his things.

“And I didn’t know his boyfriend was gay, neither,” the brother prattled on. “He grew up with us, y’know? But, I didn’t know Gil was gay, so that goes to show, don’t it? Could be anybody.”

His stomach caved in. Mycroft spun around. “His boyfriend grew up with you?”

“Yeah. Best friends with Gil. Turns out they had a thing for each other all these years, and it didn’t come out ‘til Christmas.”

Mycroft sank onto his bed. He didn’t hear the words his roommate said after that, even when his roommate gave him a shake. Mycroft shoved the boy away and left the room, heart pounding and eyes stinging.

The next time he saw Gilbert, the man flushed. The scent of toast was burning. More evidence that these delusions of Mycroft’s were his own interpretation, and not signs from some kind of higher power. Gilbert tried to say hi and toss an arm around Mycroft as if they were just two friendly blokes, but Mycroft stalked past him.

Mycroft knows he can’t always trust the extrasensory tells. But Greg is divorced. From a woman. Greg is straight, and that is what will save Mycroft from himself.

He pulls out his mobile and sends a text.

 

**_Sent 4:35 pm_ **

_I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying._

_Perhaps it will turn out most suitably for_

_Ms. Donovan. Dinner, later?_

 

**_Received 4:36 pm_ **

_Yeah. 7?_

 

**_Sent 4:36 pm_ **

_Acceptable. Shall I choose a place and send_

_a car?_

 

**_Received 4:37 pm_ **

_Acceptable. ;-)_

 


	4. Terpsichore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a dance, after all.

 

_"When they [the grasshoppers] die they go and inform the Muse in heaven who honours them on earth._

_They win the love of Terpsichore for the dancers by their report of them."_

_-_ Plato _, Phaedrus 259_ (trans. Fowler) _,_ C4th B.C.

 

It’s been six months since Sherlock’s funeral. The streets are decked with garish holiday trappings, and the only peace and quiet from the season’s noise that Mycroft gets is either at his flat or at the Diogenes. Today, he remains home.

Mycroft sits at a table in his flat with a glass of whisky and loosens his tie. _Sherlock hasn’t checked in for three days._ _Three days._

Sherlock’s mission is dangerous, but the intel is exceptional. Mycroft places his gold tie pin on the table, and spins it with his fingers. Unless Sherlock has made an obvious mistake, there is no reason for his silence. It takes a Herculean effort not to buy a plane ticket and put himself on the ground to search for his brother.

The doorbell rings.

He opens the door and his heart jumps to see Greg. Holding plastic bags of takeaway. He’s wearing a leather jacket and navy jeans. Mycroft tries not to stare.

“Anthea says you could use a distraction.” Greg holds up the takeaway as if it were a peace offering. “Something gone wrong at work. She wouldn’t tell me what, of course, classified and all. But I called your office when you didn’t answer your mobile - I was gonna ask if you’d meet me for dessert. Haven’t seen you for days, and I think I’m used to meeting you at least once every week. But, listen to me, babblin’ on. Dinner?” Greg’s face is turning red. He clears his throat and switches his weight from one foot to the other.

Mycroft sighs. The cake-like fragrance of Greg consumes him, and he wishes he could tuck his nose into Greg’s neck. “I’m not sure I would make pleasant company.”

“That’s okay. What are friends for?” Greg rocks back and forth once, twice. “So, can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft opens the door wider and ushers Greg in. He takes Greg's coat and hangs it on the stand. Handling the takeaway, he leads him to his cavernous kitchen.

“Interesting digs,” Greg says as he opens the fridge. He whistles. “This is empty. D’you ever eat at home?”

Mycroft smiles in spite of his nerves. “It is a rare pleasure in my line of work.”

“Glad I brought food with me, then.” Greg points to the cabinet. “Plates?”

“To your left.” Mycroft opens the takeaway as the spicy aroma of Indian food fills the room.

“Anthea said it was your favourite.”

Mycroft smirks. Anthea is clearly matchmaking. It is often a point of humour between them at a dinner meeting or a gala or any of the umpteen other events and meetings they attend. Once, she pointed to one young intern and said he liked getting pegged while wearing a skirt. Mycroft wasn’t sure he wanted to know how Anthea knew that, but she went on to point out the one woman in the room (so she said) who was likely to do it, and then she introduced them. Months later, the couple were moving in together. It’s an astonishing, if unusual, talent.

She’s never used him as prey in her machinations before, though.

 

* * *

 

“Who’s to be your plus one?” Anthea asks as she lays down the invitation to the annual Whitehall New Year’s Eve Gala.

Mycroft looks up, tilting his head. “I’d assumed you would attend with me, as per usual. I don’t recall permitting you the time off.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Holmes, I’ve my own invitation with my own plus one.” Her eyes glint at him. “I’ve thought of taking Laurence, the new guy over at HR.”

 _Anthea will eat the man alive_. Her purple aura flushes with red for a moment, her eyes predatory. Mycroft can’t help but smile. Anthea used to have a small creature following her. One week she went away, and when she came back, the red-eyed creature was gone. Mycroft acquired her from the secretary pool as his own assistant right then. Very few people escaped their demons, he’d learned.

Laurence, tall with a strong jaw and a boyish demeanour, has a boring aura, light brown with shades of yellow and green. Nothing hangs about him. _She’ll tire of him quickly._ Mycroft knows he will rue the day she finds a man more important to her than himself.

“So, who will you be taking?” She asks as she picks up the pile of documents from his desk, ostensibly looking through them without showing real interest in who he could possibly take.

Mycroft pretends not to care and waves a hand at her. “I’m unconcerned. Let’s talk about this little war, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

It’s a Saturday, and Greg is waiting for him, sitting atop a stool at the bar. The brewery is not either of their usual haunts, but Greg wanted to try it and invited Mycroft along. It’s crowded and the floor is sticky and the lights are glaring. On top of that, it’s a hall of horrors. Spectral silhouettes haunt corners, creatures with scaly skin and gnashing teeth crawl between stools, and there’s blood spatter across one wall. The kitchen doorway is covered in soot, and the wall pulsates like a living heart. It’s not the building itself, but echoes of people’s thoughts in the room. Mycroft does his best to ignore the visions, and the bustle of the crowd, focusing instead on his silver-haired, golden-hued companion.

Greg must notice Mycroft’s discomfort at some point in their evening, because he asks if they should get a quiet corner booth when one becomes available.

“I think I shall have another drink,” Mycroft says. Alcohol tends to dull the colours and the creatures.

The brunette beside Greg has a large chest. When she bumps into Greg as he’s about to sip his drink, a splash of liquid ends up on the bartop.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” she grabs a napkin before Greg can and begins wiping it up. She flashes a toothy grin at Greg and sets her breasts on the bar as she leans toward him. “I’ve got the trouble of talking with my hands, see.”

Greg smiles in his good-natured way. “Cleans up easy, thanks.” He turns back to Mycroft, but the brunette keeps talking. “Friends can never take me out, no matter how well I clean up, right?” She laughs. Mycroft’s stomach tenses and his chest tightens.

Greg turns to her slightly and edges closer to Mycroft. Mycroft’s stomach flips as he assesses the woman, still chattering on. Then, he sees it, winding through her hair. A worm, but not like an earthworm. It’s a fat, grotesque creature, thick like a grub with a pea soup green exoskeleton. He watches its movements until it stills, as if it senses that Mycroft can see it.

The worm begins whispering, and Mycroft can hear it clearly, though its mouth isn’t moving, or what Mycroft assumes is a mouth. It’s hard to tell with annelids. Negligent mother, absent father, first time with a boy at too young an age, sectioned for a while after a mental breakdown in her twenties. Mycroft feels a strange sense of sympathy for the garrulous woman.  

He leans forward so she can hear him. “You know it’s not you, right?”

She blinks at him, her eyes narrowing at his interruption.

“You’re better than this.” The worm is still whispering: she’s a painter, and with so little confidence to let her work see the light of day, stunning portraits are languishing in her flat, stuck in closets and behind bookshelves.

Mycroft takes out a business card, and begins writing a name and number on the back of it.

“What are you saying? Who do you think you are? Do you know me?” Her voice grows shrill.

“A gift such as yours should see the light of day, wouldn’t you agree?”

She pulls back, her mouth open. Her brown eyes flash with worry.

“This is the contact information for a gallerist. I am Mycroft Holmes. Use that name when you speak with him. He has a wife, so refrain from sexual relations with him. She’ll be your champion; she’s a fan of modern portraiture. Your particular life story will entice her, as she views herself the saviour of misfortunate women. Trust me.” Mycroft leans over Greg and pushes the card into the woman’s hand. “Again, use my name when you get in touch. I wish you the best of luck in your journey.” He waves her away with one hand. “Off you pop.”

The woman narrows her eyes at him, but she edges away from them, grasping the contact details with pale knuckles. The worm slithers out of sight into her hair.

Mycroft wonders if he should have also provided the number of a mental health professional. His thinking is interrupted by Greg’s throat clearing.

“Well, I’d often wondered if you had the same skill as Sherlock. Suppose that answers that.” Greg lifts the pint glass to his lips.

Mycroft lifts one shoulder and declines to comment. He ignores the sheen of liquid across the other man’s lips.

 

* * *

 

“Why not invite the inspector?” Anthea muses one day, leaning against his desk.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft keeps still, though his first impulse was to stiffen at the implication behind her words. The work day is coming to an end and he’s powering down his laptop. He’s started thinking of a new book of poetry waiting for him at home, continuing his project of reading international poets. He reads most of them in their native languages.

“He’s a looker, and you’ve certainly had enough dates by now to step it up a bit.” She winks at him, her light blue eyes twinkling.

Mycroft is agog. “ _Dates?_ The man is divorced from a woman, as you well know.”

Anthea purses her lips. “He’s easygoing enough to be flexible.”

“Heavens, I won’t discuss this with you.”

“So, you are interested?”

“I abhor you. Consider yourself fired. Rehired at eight a.m. prompt on the morrow.”

Anthea hops with a little shout, smiling cheekily. “Cheerio!” She shoulders her bag, and is out the door.

Mycroft shakes his head and closes his laptop. His skin prickles.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Mycroft is sitting up in bed, absorbed in a book of poetry. He’s altered his poetry project to not just read poets from around the world, but to read poets of the LGBTQ persuasion. While Mycroft has never felt an urge to connect with the larger community, he finds himself compelled to push for same-sex marriage legislation in Britain. While he himself won’t likely marry, he wants to use his privileged position to help other people who are not of the heterosexual orientation.

His mobile pings.

 

**_Received 10:32 pm_ **

_U up?_

 

**_Sent 10:33 pm_ **

_I am._  

 

**_Received 10:33 pm_ **

_What are u doin_

 

**_Sent 10:33 pm_ **

_Reading a book of poetry by Federico Garcia Lorca._

 

**_Received 10:34 pm_ **

_And what did he write?_

 

**_Sent 10:34 pm_ **

_Metaphors on romantic love, sexuality, tragedy,_

_religion, destruction and so forth._

 

**_Received 10:35 pm_ **

_Sounds...complicated._

 

**_Sent 10:36 pm_ **

_He lived in a complicated period. He was an outspoken_

_socialist and homosexual living in Spain in the 1930s._

_He was eventually executed by the Nationalist faction._

 

**_Received 10:36 pm_ **

_Send me some lines._

 

Mycroft looks down at the poem on the page. The lines his eyes leap to read ‘ _to gaze at your dark eyes, what I would give, dawns of rainbow garnet, fanning open before God-_ ‘

He closes the book.

 

**_Sent 10:38 pm_ **

_It’s in Spanish._

 

**_Received 10:38 pm_ **

_U read them in Spanish?_

 

**_Sent 10:39 pm_ **

_I try to read them in the author’s language._

 

**_Received 10:39 pm_ **

_You’re just full of surprises, aren’t u?_

_Now, come on, send me some lines._

_In English. Something pretty. ;-)_

 

Mycroft flips the book open and finds “The Unfaithful Wife,” which he decides against sending to Greg. Instead, “Gacela, of unexpected love” catches his eye.

 

**_Sent 10:41 pm_ **

_"Between the plaster and the jasmines_

_Your gaze was a pale branch, seeding_

_I tried to give you, in my breastbone,_

_The ivory letters that day ever._

 

_Ever, ever: garden of my torture,_

_Your body, flies from me forever,_

_The blood of your veins is in my mouth_

_Now_

_Already light-free for my death."_

 

Mycroft waits for Greg’s response, body still and eyes on the display of his phone. He startles when it finally pings.

 

**_Received 10:45 pm_ **

_Jesus._

 

**_Sent 10:45 pm_ **

_Quite._

 

**_Received 10:47 pm_ **

_Thanks for sharing. Got an early start tomorrow._

_I should go. Are we on for tomorrow evening?_

 

**_Sent 10:48 pm_ **

_My club?_

 

**_Received 10:48 pm_ **

_That’ll do. 8 okay?_

 

**_Sent 10:49 pm_ **

_I shall see you at 8._

 

**_Received 10:49 pm_ **

_Cheers. Goodnight, Mycroft._

 

**_Sent 10:49 pm_ **

_Goodnight, Greg._

 

Mycroft puts his mobile on his charger with trembling fingers.

 

* * *

 

“Can I ask you something? Something private, and I hope you won’t be offended.”

This time they’re at the Diogenes, enjoying brandy and a game of darts.

Mycroft’s sleeves are rolled up, and his jacket lays on a chair. Greg is dressed in a charcoal-gray jumper and jeans that hug his derriere. Mycroft has been stealing glances when Greg goes up to throw. He’s a little tipsy and more relaxed than he has been for a long time.

Greg is watching him now, snifter in hand, his eyes pitch-dark in the low light. A fire burns on the other side of the room. Mycroft feels heated, as if he were standing beside the fire itself.

“I suppose,” he drawls.

“Are you...seeing anyone?”

Mycroft’s pulse quickens. He can feel the incoming flush before it starts. “No. It’s not something I do, especially.”

“At all?”

Mycroft wonders if Greg is thinking about setting him up on a date. That is something that ‘blokes’ do for each other, isn’t it? _What a laugh._ He licks his lips. “I’m not seeing anyone currently, and I haven’t dated in a long time.”

“Having a bit of a dry spell, myself, too,” Greg chuckles. “Hopkins wants to set me up with a friend of hers, but I’m not too keen on it.”

“Why ever not?” Mycroft feels hot. And cold. There are flutters in his stomach threatening to become a stampede.

“Uh, not into the whole ‘blind date’ thing. That’s how I met Daphne, and that didn’t work out so well.” Greg shrugs. He places his drink on the table and lines up before the dartboard to take his turn.

“Ah, yes. I suppose that may cause the idea to seem repellent.” Mycroft stares into his brandy.

“Sherlock tell you?”

“Tell me…”

“How he deduced the affair?”

“No.”

“Did you know?”

Mycroft sighs. “Yes.”

Greg exhales. He throws a dart. It lands in the outer ring. “I didn’t want to see it. Once he said it, I put it together, and blimey if I didn’t feel like the biggest git.”

“She wasn’t fair to you, Greg.” Mycroft would treasure Greg if he were his. He would run his fingers through silver-gray hair and lick every centimetre of skin. He’d let Greg consume him from within like a brand lighting a fire.

He’s in trouble. He swallows down his desire. “You deserve better.”

“Yeah.” Greg smiles at this and throws another dart. Barely misses the bullseye. “Anyway, that was my last bird. How about you?”

Of course. This is what ‘blokes’ do. Exchange private information as way to strengthen attachment and establish trust. _Bonding._

“I...never dated ‘birds.’” Mycroft smiles at the colloquialism, even as his heart cracks a little.

Greg pauses in his dart throwing. “You’re gay?”

Mycroft feels his walls erect as he awaits Greg’s judgment. “Yes.”

Greg nods and throws his last dart. “And the last bloke for you?”

“No one of any consequence.” The words come out sounding harder than he meant for them to be. _Perhaps the consequences were far-reaching_.

 _Oh. Wait._ Greg has taken his admission in stride. He is unbothered by Mycroft’s orientation. Mycroft feels the tension melt from his body.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been with another man,” Greg says.

Mycroft can’t stop his gasp. _What?_ His heart starts pounding. “You - “

Greg’s hands are on his hips, and he looks at Mycroft, his teeth worrying his lower lip. He flashes Mycroft a grin. “Bat for both teams. Kind of miss having a boyfriend, to be honest. Always preferred men, but it wasn’t safe.” He shrugs.

“Greg,” Mycroft says. _What does he want me to say?_ Greg is watching him, a searching look in his face, shining eyes locked on Mycroft’s, lips slightly parted. Mycroft takes in a breath as his heart thrashes with fear and excitement. Greg is there, beside him, having spent all this time with him. Choosing to be with Mycroft as a friend. Not fucking him. Not using him.

 _Hope is dangerous_. Perhaps the most insidious thing to have escaped Pandora’s box.

If he will be seen on Mycroft’s arm in public, then... _he’s not like Gilbert._

Maybe it’s the drink or maybe it’s the desperate loneliness inside him but he needs to know. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Greg turns and gathers his darts from the board. Mycroft realises that this is a dance, and Greg will either match his steps, or he will decline. 

“Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Whitehall New Year’s Gala?” Mycroft takes pride in the fact that his voice is steady, if quiet. “As a friend, if it pleases you, but I do have a plus one, and would be delighted with your companionship.”

Greg smiles at him, his eyes shining. Mycroft can barely breathe while he watches Greg’s smile crook into a grin, those square white teeth stark against his tanned skin. “Just a friend? I’d rather hoped for more.”

Mycroft swallows as Greg steps closer. He takes Mycroft’s drink from his hand and sets it on the table. He’s now holding both of Mycroft’s hands in his, and Mycroft basks in the sensation of rough, warm skin against his own. His hands shake, but Greg’s are firm. He's staring at them as Greg speaks. “What are you thinking?”

He’s thinking he feels saturated with the inspector’s sun-like halo. It shines on his skin and stokes long ignored embers within him. “I think - I think that would be acceptable. If we attended as more - more than friends.”

“Just acceptable?” Greg’s face is so close to his.

“I am overcome.” Mycroft admits. Feeling breathless as warmth gathers in the air between their faces.

Greg leans in, and presses his lips to Mycroft’s. Mycroft’s heart is aflame.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’d like to read the full poems by Federico Garcia Lorca that are mentioned here, follow these links:
> 
> The line Mycroft decides not to send Greg is from [To Find a Kiss of Yours](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/find-kiss-yours).
> 
>  
> 
> [The Unfaithful Housewife](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/54761/the-unfaithful-housewife)
> 
>  
> 
> [Gacela, of unexpected love](http://users.telenet.be/gaston.d.haese/lorca_in_english.html#Gedicht15)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, one of my personal favorites:  
> [Of the Dark Doves](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/89728/of-the-dark-doves)


	5. Erato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg get closer.

 

_"Come, Erato, come lovely Muse, stand by me and take up the tale._

_How did Medea's passion help Jason to bring back the fleece to Iolkos."_

Apollonius Rhodius _, Argonautica_ (trans. Rieu) _,_ C3rd B.C.

  


“Are all your galas so posh?”

Mycroft trembles with laughter. He’s a little drunk, and feels a little careless. _The most beautiful man at the gala is on my arm, and I am the most fortunate person in England._

“I swear someone was wearing cufflinks that cost more than a year of my salary. But it would have taken the entire forensics team to find the stick up his arse.”

Mycroft snorts. “Greg, you mustn’t. This is unbecoming.”

“Ah, not a gossip, then, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have to work with that man. And now I must face him with the thought of your forensics team gathered about his posterior.”

Greg guffaws and slides his arms around Mycroft. They’re standing in the entryway of Greg’s flat. Mycroft’s car is waiting at the kerb. “There’s only one posterior I’m thinking about.”

Heat dashes across Mycroft’s cheeks. His stomach is aflutter and thrilling with uncertainty.

“Oh, was that too much?” Greg strokes his nose against Mycroft’s neck. “Sorry, had a bit much to drink. Can I kiss you?”

Mycroft nods his assent. Greg tilts his head upward and Mycroft slides his lips into the kiss. The other man’s flesh is warm and moist. The seams of their mouths part and their tongues taste one another, the booze foremost, the cigarettes - _last of the year, we’re quitting together we said_ \- second, and the natural flavours underneath. Mycroft has never been kissed so gently.

“I’ve been dying to kiss you for a long time, Mr. Holmes,” Greg says when they part, his eyes black in the dim light. Mycroft shivers.

“And I, you,” he says - though they had kissed at midnight, it was brief and in public. Greg’s aura is softly glowing its golden hue.

“Do you want to come in?” Greg whispers in his ear. His rough voice zings straight to Mycroft’s cock.

Mycroft’s heart thuds, and his face flushes. “I’m… I-“

“It’s no rush, Mycroft. Really. We can take our time, yeah?” He noses along Mycroft’s jaw. “I’m a little pissed and no doubt it’s better done if we’re both sober.” Greg hugs him and takes a slow step back. “Makes it sweeter.” He winks. “Thanks for taking me, tonight. I had a great time. And thanks for kissing me at midnight. That was my favourite part.” He fishes his keys out of his pocket.

“I look forward to it.” And Mycroft realises that he does. Normally, he loathes to be around people, loathes when he has to shake hands with someone, does everything he can to keep others far from his person. But Greg is so wholesome, so honest and so true to himself, he’s the only one to put Mycroft at ease enough that he not only doesn’t mind Greg touching him, he _craves_ it.

“Shall I text you tomorrow?” Greg unlocks the door.

“Please,” Mycroft nods. Greg leans over and kisses him again. And again.

“Goodnight,” they breathe to one another when they stop. Mycroft walks down the stoop to head for the car, his heart aglow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft has had two potential sexual liaisons since Gilbert, and both came to naught. After uni, he met a tall, blond man with a light blue aura and a soft laugh. He smelled like saltwater, which was only just bearable to Mycroft’s nose. The second potential partner was during his late twenties, a short man with a soft green and blue aura, his scent redolent with flowers. He was polyamorous and married to a pleasant woman. Mycroft doesn’t share. Both of these men gave him fodder for sexual fantasies, but neither so forcefully as his thoughts of Greg.

Mycroft shrugs out of his dressing gown and palms the bulge in his pajamas. He’s thick with blood and want. In the drawers beneath his bed, there are velvety soft sheets. He pulls one out and lays it on the mattress, the bedsheet and duvet folded down and out of the way. He sits on the bed and lays back, head on his pillow, feet on top of the folded duvet. Sliding one hand down his pyjama bottoms, he grips his prick and his toes curl at the touch.

He pictures Greg laying next to him, propped on one arm as the other reaches up Mycroft’s shirt to encircle his nipples with his fingers, probing and pinching.

Mycroft moans as his fingers touch the moisture secreting from the tip of his cock, pulling and pushing his foreskin. He moves his other hand from his nipples (Greg’s hand, in his mind’s eye), and to his bollocks, cradling them gently at first, and then tugging at the sack. He pulls faster on his prick, his groin growing tighter and hotter.

He flips over, pushing his bottoms down to release his prick against the soft velvet sheet. He sees Greg before him, chest heaving, legs spread and in the air, dusky cock hard in a nest of dark and silver hair. His arse cheeks are parted and exposing his hole. Mycroft ruts against the sheet as he imagines rubbing his cock against Greg’s and then rubbing the cleft of his arse, already prepared with lubricant. He can feel himself sinking into that tight heat, cockhead pushing past the ring of muscle, and hears Greg’s gasps and groans as he slowly, slowly invades that cavity with his cock.

Mycroft shoves his swollen prick against the sheet, thrusting with his hips and burying his head beneath his pillow as he moans.

His hips begin to snap faster, and in his head he’s fucking Greg faster and faster, until like a coiled spring, his orgasm bursts: a sweet explosion rippling through his body as he spurts into the sheet, once, twice, three and four times.

The aftershocks are pleasant and he writhes and rolls onto his side to avoid touching his cock to the bed. He’s asleep before the thought of cleaning up even enters his head.

 

* * *

 

It’s four more dates - two dinners, one pub night, and one movie night on Greg’s sofa - before the opportunity arrives. Mycroft sits upright, eyes on the flatscreen. Films, television shows, and CCTV footage are safe for Mycroft to watch. He doesn’t see strange colours emanating from people on the screen. There are no manifestations of personal demons. He gets to see the world the way others see it. It’s fascinating, and comforting. He’s so enthralled, he misses Greg’s cues until the man pulls him into an embrace.

Greg straddles him and grabs him by the back of the neck. His other hand cups his cheek. Mycroft thrusts against Greg’s cock, and Greg moans and answers with a thrust of his own.

“I want you,” Greg gasps out as Mycroft attacks his neck with kisses and nibbles.

“I want you as well,” Mycroft responds. “I’m just - it’s been a long time for me, Greg.”

Greg pauses, then he grabs a kiss from Mycroft’s lips. He leans back to catch his eye. He traces the curve of Mycroft’s lips with one thumb. “How long?” He’s gentle in asking.

Mycroft blushes. “I was sixteen.” Greg’s eyes bug. Then narrow. “Did - did someone hurt you?”

“No. I - enthusiastically consented.” Mycroft replies. “It was a mistake, but they didn’t hurt me in the way you suspect.”

Greg’s eyes soften and he continues to trace the contours of Mycroft’s face with his fingers.

“It is difficult for me to connect with others.” Mycroft can’t stop the flush crawling up his neck.  _Vulnerable._

“You hate admitting you may not be an expert in something, huh?” Greg says with a small smile playing on his lips.

Mycroft scoffs.

“It’s okay.” Greg kisses his nose. “It really is. I like you. I want you. I don’t care about your past. We’re here now, and I’m thrilled.”

Mycroft exhales as he presses his forehead to Greg’s shoulder.

“That is a long time to go without, though.” Greg rolls his hips and Mycroft gasps at the contact. “You’ve got to be all pent up, gagging for it, huh?” He starts rutting against Mycroft, cocks touching through cloth, and like that, the fuse is lit and both men are flaring with need.

“Oh, fuck,” Mycroft breathes.

“Oh Jesus. You fuck me up when you swear, Mycroft.” Greg bites Mycroft’s lower lip, and Mycroft’s hips stutter with intensifying sparks of molten pleasure.

Greg reaches between them. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just tell me.” His hand strokes Mycroft’s cock through his trousers.

“Yes, oh _yes,_ ” Mycroft enthuses. “Fuck, yes.”

Greg’s mobile pings from the coffee table. They both go still. “Shite,” says Greg. He lifts himself from Mycroft and checks the display. “Argh. I’m on call this weekend. It’s a double murder and there’s a jurisdiction issue and they want me to go down and clear it.”

Mycroft wilts. Greg stands and holds his hand out and Mycroft takes it. They rub their noses together and Greg kisses him. “I’m sorry, posh. I hate to leave us in this state, but I have to go. Fuck!”

His phone starts ringing. He answers and snaps,”Lestrade, what d’ya want?”

He’s barking orders as he pulls on his coat. Mycroft is cleaning their drink glasses at the sink. Greg kisses him on his neck. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Just - lock the door on your way out. I’ll call you later.”

Mycroft nods and they kiss again. He’s still smiling after Greg’s left, disappointed that the evening has stalled, but reassured that Greg is interested in Mycroft for who he is.

 

* * *

 

The next day, there’s a text:

 

**_Received 11:10 am_ **

_Been thinking about you. So sorry about last night._

_Comes with the job. :-(_

 

Mycroft smiles, and replies.

 

**_Sent 11:11 am_ **

_Please don’t be concerned. I think you_

_will find me more understanding than most._

 

His phone buzzes again.

 

**_Received 11:12 am_ **

_Can I take you to dinner on Friday?_

 

Mycroft types and hits send.

 

**_Sent 11:12 am_ **

_That sounds most excellent._

 

“Is that Mr. Lestrade, then?” Anthea smirks at him from the doorway. Mycroft rolls his eyes and swivels his chair, turning his back on her gloating visage.

 

* * *

  


His arms tighten around Greg’s waistline. Greg pulls him closer and the kiss becomes urgent and hurried. Greg is kissing and nipping his neck and Mycroft gasps and moans as the heat builds in his groin and his cock fills.

“Greg, oh, oh, Greg!” His heart is hammering and he fists his hands in the fabric of Greg’s shirt.

“That’s it, posh.” Greg trails his tongue along his collarbone and presses him against the wall. “Say my name.”

“Greg,” Mycroft says it again and again. “ _Greg_.”

Greg pushes the length of his body against him, sucking at his collarbone. The sensation is intense, and his body is thrilling with zings of pleasure. Their hips rock together. Mycroft widens his legs, bringing himself down in height as Greg slots himself between Mycroft’s thighs. The feeling of a hard cock against his own is tremendous, even with the layers of clothing between them. They’re rutting like animals in the hallway, and Mycroft can’t help but moan as he runs his hands over Greg’s back and arse.

“Bedroom?” Greg rasps between sucking kisses along Mycroft’s neck.

“ _Yes_.” Mycroft clutches Greg’s shoulders as he throws his head back.

Greg chuckles and pulls Mycroft to the back of his flat where the bedroom is. “C’mon, posh, I’ll take care of you.”

Inside the room, Greg tumbles Mycroft onto the bed, and straddles him. The heat between them is volcanic now, as they scramble to release each other from the constraints of their clothes. Intense rushes of desire electrify their naked bodies as they shove against each other, until Mycroft grabs Greg by the wrists and pins him down on the mattress.

“Fuck me, Mycroft,” Greg groans. “I want you to fuck me.”

Mycroft feels stunned for just an instant, his fantasy of fucking Greg into a mattress flashing through his head, and now he has Greg in this bed and it seems unbelievable that that is exactly what Greg wants from him.

“How - I -”

“Lube in the bedside table. Condoms, too,” Greg huffs out. Their eyes lock on one another, and Mycroft can see the weight of Greg’s desire in them. His cake-like fragrance is laced with the scents of caramelised sugar and notes of dark chocolate. Mycroft realises that he’s smelling Greg’s arousal, and he salivates as he reaches into the drawer and pulls out the supplies.

Greg flips over onto his hands and knees, face down into the pillowcase, and Mycroft is met with a gorgeous view of Greg’s backside: strong, thick thighs parted to reveal his hanging balls and stiff penis. His arse juts into the air, two round pale cheeks and a dusky pink rosebud nestled between them. Mycroft’s cock throbs as he rips opens the condom packet and rolls it on.  

He slicks up his fingers and begins sweeping his fingertips in circles around Greg’s entrance, and Greg moans into his pillow as his hips begin to rock. With his other hand, Mycroft slicks up his shaft, and rubs his lubed thumb over his knob as he watches his middle finger begin to disappear into Greg’s hole. Sliding it in and out causes more gasping and panting from Greg.

“More, do another, do another,” Greg begs. Mycroft can see Greg’s cock leaking a trail of precome onto the duvet below. He slides a second finger inside and fucks Greg with them. Greg pushes his hips back, and is moaning and mumbling into the pillow.

Mycroft shuffles closer on his knees, lining his cock up with Greg’s hole, going back for more lube and using his two fingers to push it inside Greg. Greg is keening, and Mycroft feels like he might burst on the first thrust. He slides his cock up and down Greg’s crack, and Greg starts begging.

“Do it, fuck me, Mycroft, fuck me, please, _please_ …”

Mycroft steadies his cock at the slicked aperture, and balancing himself by grabbing Greg’s hips, begins pushing inside the hot, tight tunnel. He goes slow, remembering his time with the unworthy Gilbert, and how sometimes he went too fast for Mycroft’s comfort. Here, Mycroft takes his time, soothing Greg with long strokes along his olive-skinned flanks, and moving nearly a centimetre at a time. When Greg pushes back at him, he stills, letting Greg work himself down his erection.

Mycroft is panting as he finally sheathes himself inside Greg. “Oh, _oh_ , you feel, you feel…”

“Christ, Mycroft, you’re hung like a horse. Oh fuck, I’m so full, so full of you. Oh god, fuck me, _move_.”

Spurred on, Mycroft starts fucking his lover into the mattress. Greg collapses onto the bed, his cock pinned between the duvet and his belly. Mycroft holds himself up as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward, causing a rush of cries to erupt from Greg’s mouth. Surrounded by Greg’s snug heat, Mycroft feels a wave of pleasure rush down his cock, spread into his balls, and begin to build in his groin. He reaches for Greg’s face and turns him so they can kiss, wet and urgent.

When their lips part, Greg whips his head to the side with a cry. “Harder! More!” Greg is braced against the pillowcase, his breath coming out in gasps. “God, I love your cock!”

“Yes, take it, take my cock, take it!” He’s still pumping his hips into Greg’s arse when his orgasm hits, like a sudden firework exploding in the blue-dark sky, bursting through his cock and shooting come into the condom. He shouts his ecstasy into the skin between Greg’s scapula.

Mycroft slumps over Greg’s body, and then slowly, carefully, he rolls to the side, taking care with the condom as he slides it off his sensitive cock, and quickly ties it shut.

Greg, panting, says, “Jesus Christ, Mycroft. You fuck like a beast.”

Mycroft is too breathless to answer, and the aftershocks are still vibrating through his body. He wants to taste Greg. He used to get on his knees for Gilbert, and he had an easy time of making him come. He might even be good at it.

He rolls Greg onto his back, both of them trembling. Mycroft chases beads of sweat with his tongue over Greg’s chest and down his torso. Greg whimpers as Mycroft’s mouth traces along the shaft and presses against the base of his cock. Licking from base to tip, Mycroft savours the saltwater flavour and rubs his face into Greg’s groin. Greg’s hands press against his scalp. “Oh god, Mycroft, please, suck me.”

Mycroft slides Greg’s prick into his mouth, taking in as much as he can, slicking his tongue about the head and bobbing up and down. Greg is uncut, and Mycroft’s tongue dips into the crevices of the foreskin, grabbing the base with his hand and sucking as hard as he can. Greg gasps and whines. Mycroft pops off, laves his tongue over Greg’s balls, and listens to the man’s cries get higher. “Oh, like that, yes, oh god, like that.”

Mycroft complies, licking and sucking one ball and then the other into his mouth before he returns to the rosy-headed cock, licking and sucking until Greg begins to writhe and warns Mycroft with a shout. “Oh, oh, I’m coming!”

Mycroft, heedless of a little voice inside that warns him about venereal diseases, hangs on, and swallows Greg’s seed as it hits the back of his throat.

He opens his eyes, and the room is filled with Greg’s golden light. He crawls up to Greg’s side, and Greg folds him into his arms and kisses him on the mouth. “Mmmm,” Greg moans as he rolls onto his back. And winces.

Mycroft’s heart skips. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I love it. If I’d known, I’d have tried harder to get you into bed sooner.” Greg laughs as he says this, rolling back into his direction and throwing an arm around Mycroft’s chest. “Jesus.”

“I’ve never done that before.” Mycroft admits in a quiet voice. There’s a pressure building in his chest, and an alarming sense of tingling at the corners of his eyes.

“Well, you’re bloody amazing at it.” Greg kisses his shoulder. “I’m going to sleep well tonight, but fuck if I’ll be able to walk in the morning.”

Mycroft snorts with laughter. “Allow me to get something to clean us up.” His chest is getting tighter, and he needs to get away from Greg before he notices.

“Cheers, mate.”

Mycroft stiffens. He can’t stop himself from responding. “I certainly hope we are more than mates.” The weight behind his sternum grows cold.

Greg shifts and places a hand on Mycroft’s face to still him from getting up. He looks Mycroft in the eye, his face inches away. “Definitely more than mates. Substantially more than mates.”

Mycroft feels the pressure ratchet up. _I love you,_ he thinks.

Greg touches his face, wiping away the wetness that Mycroft didn’t notice. Mycroft sniffs, and buries himself into Greg’s embrace. It’s only a few tears, but the pressure in his chest is gone.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
It’s the one year anniversary of Sherlock’s ‘death’. Mycroft is passing aware of it, but doesn’t really think about it until he notices how subdued Greg is.

“Greg?” He places a hand on his arm. They’ve been sitting side by side on Mycroft’s parlour sofa. Mycroft is reading a book by the American poet Audre Lorde. Greg has been checking his email. “Are you quite all right?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I am fine, Greg.”

“How are you always so fine?” Greg puts his laptop on the table and turns to face Mycroft. “You’ve been bloody fine this whole year.”

“I’m not inclined to outrageous displays of emotion.”

“You and I both know that that’s bullshit. You feel things, Mycroft, even if you try to hide it. And you loved Sherlock. More than anyone.”

Mycroft sighs as he places his book on the arm of the sofa, and takes Greg’s hands. “I am unhappy with what happened to Sherlock. Tremendously. It isn’t...fair. But I am doing my best to accept it and resolve these feelings within myself.”

“I’m here for you, you know.” Greg squeezes his hands.

“I know. And that means a great deal to me.”

Greg leans his face into Mycroft’s neck, his ear above Mycroft’s shoulder, and whispers in the shadows there, “I’m falling for you.”

Mycroft’s breath stutters. They’ve been having dinners and coffees and sex for six months now. He brings his hands up to place them on Greg’s arms, now wrapped about his waist. “I’ll catch you. I swear it.”

Greg snorts, and Mycroft can feel his smile against the skin of his neck. “Cheeseball.”

Mycroft laughs. “Strumpet.”

Greg laughs with him and they kiss. And kiss again. His lips tingle and heat builds low in his belly and Greg is warm and willing as Mycroft directs him to the bedroom.

 

 


	6. Thalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With love comes laughter.

 

_"...Thalia would have rejoiced and praised his accents, and in wanton mood have_

_disordered his comely locks with a rosy garland."_

Statius _, Silvae_ (trans. Mozley) _,_ C1st A.D.

  


After reading the report on Sherlock’s latest - _successful_ \- endeavour, Mycroft flushes with relief. His belly knots every time he sits down to read these reports. _Agent W is alive._ And achieving his missions within the planned time frame. He closes the email after committing it to memory, and places his laptop in his office safe.

Greg is in the kitchen, starting the prep for their evening meal. Most of his things have migrated to Mycroft’s house, and they spend five nights out of the week in his bed.

Greg is chopping vegetables as he enters the kitchen. He kisses Greg on the temple in greeting.

“Good work day, then?” Greg says.

“Mm. Splendid. Yours?”

“It was something all right. Anderson’s gone off the deep end, I think. He’s just...I think you were right. His guilt has got to him. I don’t know how you do it.”

Mycroft keeps quiet, looking at the small glow of light surrounding Greg. “What can I do to help with dinner?”

“Grab the salt, will you?”

Mycroft opens the cabinet. The salt shaker falls, bounces off his shoulder, hits the counter, and rolls to the floor, creating a clatter and rumble of sounds as it does.

“You okay?” Greg turns from the cutting board.

“The salt shaker fell on me,” Mycroft mutters as he crouches to retrieve the fallen shaker.

“So...you were...assaulted?” Mycroft turns his head in time to see Greg winking, that impish smile forming on his lips. “Would you like to fill out a report?”

Mycroft sighs. “As ever, your brand of humour remains puerile.”

“Now, now, no need to get _salty_ with me, sir.” Greg licks his lips as his eyes shine with barely restrained mirth.

Mycroft feels the tug of a smile at his lips, but he doesn’t let it show. Greg moves closer. “But you know me,” he leans down into Mycroft’s proximity, “I take everything you say with a grain of salt.”

Mycroft wants to groan but instead he chuckles, ducking his head away from Greg’s sight. Greg grabs him into his arms, and snuggles into his neck, pulling him into a stand. Mycroft feels Greg’s tongue swipe across his collarbone. “Mmmm, could probably use a little pepper.”

Mycroft laughs, and wraps his arms around his lover.

 

 

* * *

  

  
  
Mycroft considers his pile of poetry books, wavering between Ifti Nasim and Constantine Cavafy. He picks up Cavafy and heads for the “rec room,” as Greg has come to call it.

Reading the works of other gay men has made him feel centered in some ways. He leads an extremely privileged life compared to the majority of the poets he has read, but in many ways he is more ignorant than they on the subject of love. Reading their words, even if they’re not all steeped in eroticism, has given him a sense of connection to like-minded brethren as he embarks on this relationship.

A relationship with a man who has left his socks on the living room floor, an open container of chinese food on the coffee table, and his jacket slung across one of the armchairs. The man himself has the telly on and his button down shirt open, exposing his vest. One hand scratches at a strip of bared belly.

Mycroft looks at the screen. A balding, white man in a red and black uniform is ordering earl grey tea from what appears to be a computer mounted in a wall. “Are you - are you watching Star Trek?” 

Greg looks up from where he’s laid out on the sofa. “The Next Generation.”

Mycroft sits in the armchair, watching the screen. “I have to admit, I’ve never really understood the appeal.”

“What? Have you seen Captain Picard in action? The man’s sex on legs. He’s all cultured and he’s got a way with words that’ll have you nodding your head yes to anything he says.” Greg waves a hand in the air at the television. “All that power and that big brain on that tight frame.”

Mycroft regards Greg for a moment, who keeps his eyes glued to the screen. He finally says, “I think I’m beginning to understand you a little better.”

Greg just grins.

  


* * *

  
  


It’s dark in the flat when he arrives, but he feels like someone’s walked through recently. He shifts his grip on the umbrella, ready to unsheathe the sword if necessary. He places his briefcase on the floor, and continues down the hallway on quiet feet.

In the parlour, he notices a soft glow from one of the wingback chairs. Greg is sitting there, staring at an unlit fireplace.

“Greg?”

“Huh?” Greg straightens in the chair. “Oh, Mycroft.”

“Is something the matter?” He walks closer. Greg is still wearing his coat, and he smells like cigarettes. “What happened?”

“Oh, I’m just...tough case.” Greg starts to shrug out of his coat. “I just got in. Thought I’d sit down for a minute. I’m knackered.”

Greg is especially affected by cases involving children or teens. Mycroft leans his umbrella against the other wingback, and moves to help his partner out of his coat. “Take off your shoes. Tell me about it.”

“You don’t want to hear it, Mycroft. It’s godawful.” Mycroft thinks of the things he sees on a daily basis, and he knows that as terrifying as it is, it can be argued that it isn’t real. It, perhaps, doesn’t compare with some of the horrific scenes Greg comes across in his work.

“I want to help you.” He sits on the arm of the chair, stroking Greg’s back as he kicks off his shoes. “Let’s retire to the rec room, shall we?”

Mycroft makes them tea and takes it into the rec room. They get settled in on the sofa, Mycroft draping one arm around Greg’s shoulders and pulling him in close. He presses a kiss to Greg’s temple, inhaling the scent of cologne and cigarette smoke, over an underlying odour of a day’s work. “Tell me about it if it’ll help settle your mind.”

“Just...just hard. A girl, probably no more than fourteen. A runaway, most likely. Brutalised.” Greg scrubs his face with one hand. “I hope we find the guy and put him away, but I’d love a moment alone in a room with him.”

Mycroft almost smiles. Greg is an avenging spirit, but only within the confines of the law and within his own sense of morality. It’s one of things Mycroft loves about him. “I am so sorry. I’m sure your team will do everything they can, and I know you will do your best.”

“Yeah,” Greg sighs. “It’s one of those times I think of Sherlock - not that I don’t think of him at other times. It’s not a locked room murder, but something like this, he’d see what we were missing and likely find the bastard by the colour of the girl’s shoes or something.”

Mycroft frowns.

“I know everyone thought he was a...a sociopath, but I never believed that,” Greg says. “He did care. He didn’t always understand people, and he could be a right arse, but when it came to kids, he worked the case without my having to harass him for it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. “Sherlock - was an empathetic child. Sometimes to the point of self-injury.” He clears his throat. “I admire what you do, Greg. I know it isn’t easy.”

“But it’s the right thing. That’s what I tell myself. I’m good at my job. Maybe not Sherlock-good - “

“Sherlock couldn’t manage a team or do the paperwork. Or cope with a consultant like himself.”

“True,” Greg smiles and shakes his head. “But what he did, what we did together, was good. We helped people.”

He hugs Greg to him and kisses him on his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Greg turns his head and they press their lips together.

“Why don’t we get your laptop and you can torture me with those ridiculous YouTube videos of cats,” Mycroft suggests.

Greg snorts. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t amuse you, posh. I saw your browser history yesterday, and it seems you’ve spent some time watching baby goat videos while you were supposedly working.”

Mycroft turns red. “T-that was - research!”

Greg lets out a laugh, and Mycroft warms to hear it. “Research? On what? How to distract England’s enemies using the power of adorable baby goats hopping on and off things?”

“If we could harness and weaponise that, Britain could assert herself as a world power once more.” Mycroft grins as they press their foreheads together. “Why don’t I show you some of my favourites?”

“Please do.” Greg nuzzles Mycroft’s cheek, his aura beginning to brighten again.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mycroft is sitting at the desk in his home office, and Anthea leans against it as she rifles through a file in her hands. It’s a rare day where they are working out of his house, as is Mycroft’s preference to avoid the nightmarish scenes he can come across by working amongst others. Greg has come home to meet them for lunch, and Mycroft can hear him coming out of the bathroom just down the hall.

“So, tell me, Mr. Holmes, are you the big spoon or the little spoon?” Anthea’s eyebrows wiggle.

Mycroft huffs at her impertinence, but can’t help his answer. “What sort of nonsense are you spouting? If I were cutlery, I would be a carving knife.”

“He’s the little spoon!” Greg shouts from the hallway.

Mycroft gasps. Raising his voice, he addresses the man in the hallway. “You impudent trollop, pipe down!”

Anthea’s body shakes with laughter as she plops the files down on his desk and leaves the room.

Mycroft can’t help but smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft and Greg are meeting for lunch at the Diogenes. Mycroft waits as Greg sits at the seat across from his desk, setting up their plates with Chinese takeaway.

When Greg leans back, smiling at Mycroft, Mycroft attacks. With all sincerity on his face, he wings the packet of salt at the inspector, followed by the AA battery. Both items hit Greg in the chest, the salt packet landing with a crinkle in his lap, and the battery landing with a thud between his thigh and the arm of the chair.

Greg glances at the projectiles, and then lifts his eyes to meet Mycroft’s.

“Assault and battery?” Greg licks his lips, his eyes twinkling. “Well played, Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to handcuff you, now.”

“I await your punishment,” Mycroft purrs with a quirk of a smile on his lips.

As Greg shoves the food containers out of the way and advances across the desk, Mycroft can’t remember a time he’s ever been this happy, or that he has ever laughed so much.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank Grey's Anatomy and incorrect-mystrade-quotes on Tumblr for the cutlery joke. The other jokes are inspired by actual incidents in my own household. We're a little salty and a little punny.


	7. Melpomene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who has commented and/or left kudos. It has been truly heart-warming. I have such great love for people who will take a chance on a WIP and an unknown author. Thank you.
> 
> Thank you also to those of you who have communicated with me via tumblr and Twitter in enthusiasm for updates. These conversations, reblogs, hearts, and tweets are highlights of my days.

 

_ “Why do you delay, O divine Sophokles, to accept the gifts of Melpomene?  _

_ Why do you fix your eyes upon the ground?  _

_ Since I for one do not know whether it is because you are now collecting your thoughts,  _

_ or because you are awe-stricken at the presence of the goddess." _

Philostratus the Younger , __ Imagines 13 _ _ ( trans. Fairbanks ),  C3rd A.D.

 

  
  
  


“Mr. Lestrade?” The doctor, tall and white-haired, stands in the doorway of the family waiting room. A clipboard is in hand hanging at his side. His bearded and tanned face is a practiced expression in neutrality. Mycroft registers a grey-blue fog about him.

“Yes?” Greg stands, and Mycroft stands beside him.

The doctor’s features fall into one of sympathy. “I’m afraid Mrs. Harrington passed before we could begin the emergency procedure. I’m very sorry, but we did everything we could.”

Greg sinks into his chair and stares ahead of him, his hands gripping the armrests. The doctor is still talking, but Mycroft ignores him and sits beside his lover, taking a hand. The doctor is making some kind of apology, saying he’ll be back, and he leaves the room.

“My love?” Mycroft prompts. “I’m so sorry. Can I do anything for you? Should I call anyone?”

“No,” Greg croaks. He faces Mycroft. “I’m - in shock, I think.” He sniffs as his eyes gleam. Mycroft wraps one arm about his shoulders. 

“I know,” is all he says. They sit together for a while.

“I’ll need to make arrangements.” Greg says. “God, Marlie is going to be a mess. She didn’t get here in time.” 

“I will help you, Greg. And I will be here for you when your cousin gets here.”

“Thanks,” Greg’s voice is soft and creaky. “Um, I’m just in shock, yeah. I don’t really remember my own mum and dad. I know I’ve told you this before, but I don’t know how I’d have turned out if it weren’t for Aunt Ollie.”

“Of course. She became your parent.” Mycroft strokes Greg’s shoulder. 

“Yeah. God, Marlie is going to be a mess. I can’t call her. I’ve got to wait until she gets here.”

“Face to face would be best, I think.” Mycroft holds him closer.

The door to the waiting room opens, and in walks a short, thin woman with dark brown eyes and blonde-streaked curls. Mycroft sees a soft white glow about her, turning greyer by the second as she catches Greg’s expression.

“Greg? Is she-” The woman’s face is stricken.

“God, Marlie. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Marlie’s face crumples, and Greg goes to her with arms outstretched.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ Sherlock is missing. _

Agent W is not only nowhere to be found, but in his last known location, there are signs of a struggle, including blood on the floor. The blood has been identified.

_ Sherlock. _

Mycroft is shaking when Greg enters the room. He’s clutching his laptop, he realises, and quickly closes it. He makes his body still, and he begins planning. He’ll need to be on the ground of course. He’ll catch the next flight out and he’ll make arrangements with Anthea-

“Mycroft, what is it?” Greg is wearing his suit for the funeral. Mycroft notices it’s the same one he wore to Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock- ” Mycroft begins.

Greg rushes to Mycroft and gathers him into his arms.

“Sherlock-” Mycroft starts again, but he can’t tell Greg, not yet.

“What about Sherlock, hm?” Greg whispers, his soft lips next to Mycroft’s temple.

“I-I have to go.” Mycroft shakes his head. “It has to be me. I can speak the language and I know-”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to go.” Mycroft starts to stand.

“Go where?” Greg takes a step back to look Mycroft in the eye. “Where on earth could you possibly be going?”

“It’s Sherlock. I have to find him.” Mycroft shakes his head as he realises what he’s said. He strides to his wardrobe, deciding what to pack as he-

“Sherlock? Mycroft!” Greg stands, staring, his mouth open.

“I mean…” and then Mycroft decides to stay quiet as he packs. This is panic. He’s panicking.  _ I need to be alone. Mycroft Holmes does not panic. _

“Are you packing? The funeral is in two hours!” Greg comes up beside Mycroft.

“Greg, I-” Mycroft inhales and holds his breath. If he tells Greg, Greg would understand, right?  _ This entire operation depends on secrecy and telling Greg could also endanger Greg and _ \- Mycroft loves Greg.

“Mycroft!” Greg shakes him by his shoulders. “What is going on?”

“I’m leaving, Greg.” Mycroft says. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I have to go.”

Greg pulls back, disbelief marring his features. “What? Where are you going?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.” Mycroft’s mind skips ahead to the plans that need to be made, the contacts he’ll need, what Anthea’s duties will be-

“Mycroft! Tell me what’s going on!” Greg grabs his shirtsleeves.

“I can’t!” Mycroft yells as he pulls away. He shakes his head, rubbing thumb and index finger on each temple as the other hand sits on his hip. “I have to go. It’s for work. I’m sorry. National security.”

“National security? What about the funeral? My aunt’s died, the woman who raised me! I need you, Mycroft.” Greg is pleading now, and his eyes are wet.

_ Greg is safe, but Sherlock... _

“I promised to always be there for him. I promised, Greg.”

“For who?  _ Who? _ Sherlock? He’s dead!”

“I’m sorry, Greg, I have to go.” Mycroft grabs his satchel and slides his laptop inside. He’ll call Anthea on the way to the airport.

“I don’t understand. Are you leaving me?” It’s the broken quality of Greg’s voice that gives Mycroft pause. 

“No. Yes. I mean, I’m leaving, but only for a couple weeks. I hope my task won’t take me very long. I’m sorry, Greg.” Mycroft places his hands on Greg’s face. “I love you. I love you so much. But I have to go.”

Mycroft’s heart feels like it might shatter his chest as he pounds down the steps toward the door. He pushes away the image of a broken man he leaves behind as he reaches for his mobile to call for a car.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s six weeks later when Mycroft returns to England with a mostly healed Sherlock. Other agents have picked up where Sherlock have left off, and finished obliterating the last cell of Moriarty’s network.

Sherlock can come home. The secrets can end.

Listening to his voicemails on the plane ride home was painful. Greg started with pleas: “ _ Listen, I don’t know what’s happening right now. Won’t you talk to me?” “Anthea says she can’t say anything. At least let me know you’re okay. I know it’s a matter of national security and all, but I need to know you’re okay.” “I wish we had talked about this before. That this was something that could happen in our time together.” _

And then sometimes Greg is just talking:  _ “So Marlie came over again, and we got drunk and talked about the good childhood we had.” “I got the flowers. They’re lovely. But I’d rather have you.” “Work sucked today, and I wish you were here.”  _

Greg becomes angry: “ _ Mycroft Holmes, you fucking arsehole. I needed you that day! I needed you.” “What the fuck kind of man leaves like that?” “This isn’t what people in love do to each other, y’know.”  _

And back to sad:  _ “How could you do this to us?” _

When Mycroft enters his own home, there is no sign of Greg. There are bouquets sitting in vases on the kitchen table. The flowers are dead and withered, and the vases dry of water. There’s a note one each of them.  _ To Greg, I am safe. Love, Mycroft. _

He never sent flowers. This is Anthea’s doing. 

Of course, he expected it. Anthea had informed him that Greg moved his belongings back into his old flat. Yet, Mycroft had hoped he might find some object of promise or some note that would hint at reconciliation, or curiosity, or even accusation. 

There is nothing. 

Mycroft walks the hallways and stairways and checks each room. He touches objects he knows Greg touched - the knobs on the oven. The light switch of the bathroom. The remote belonging to the television. The alarm clock by the bed. None of them alive. None of them warm. The house is emptier than ever, now that it has known occupants who loved and who fought and who laughed and who forgave. 

The horrors of Serbia are fresh in his mind. He’d walked among people with demons at their backs, a grotesque show, as if he’d walked the spiral staircase of Dante’s _ Inferno _ . He kept himself together by revisiting memories of Greg in his house, and by knowing that his brother’s life depended on him.

His brother is still scathing in his discourse, but he is like a pale shade of his old self. Mycroft informed him of John’s new girlfriend, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. The spectres surrounding Sherlock are still there, but meaner now. They race circles around his feet, tiny shadowy creatures with squirrel-like ears and hoofed feet. They mock Mycroft, and Mycroft does his best to ignore them.

He’s not sure they’ll ever go away now. Sherlock is hurting.

Mycroft has wondered if he has his own unseen tormentors. He wonders if James Moriarty saw them, or if Mycroft appeared to him as a blank, as Moriarty did. Mycroft sinks into his chair, and folds his head into his hands. 

  
  



	8. Polyhymnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft suffers the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the kudos and comments.

 

_“The rage of Pindar filled the sounding air,_

_As Polyhymnia tried her skill divine;_

_The shaggy lion roused him from his lair,_

_And bade his blood-stained eyes in fury shine;_

_The famished eagle poised his waving wings,_

_Whetting his thirsty beak—while murder rose,_

_With hand that grasps a dirk, with eye that glows_

_In gloomy madness o'er the throne of kings,_

_And, as she bade her tones of horror swell,_

_The demon shook his steel with wild exulting yell.”_

James G. Percival, _Ode to Music_ , 1823

  


Mycroft has never prayed in his life before now. He finds himself thinking, _whoever is listening, please, please let him forgive me_. This phrase loops in his head as he steps off the lift onto Greg’s floor and walks down the hall.

He knocks on the door. Footsteps near, and when it opens, Greg stares. His aura is almost nonexistent.

“Please, Greg,” Mycroft says, holding his hands out with palms up and fingers spread, in supplication. “I was wrong to leave you like I did. I am here to explain myself, if you will listen.”

“Where the fuck have you been?” Greg’s eyes darken, and his mouth snarls with anger. “I tried calling you. Anthea wouldn’t tell me a thing, except that you were alive, and fuck-all else. That was the only information I could get from anyone. It was like I didn’t matter, and at a pretty fucking important time in my life!” Greg’s voice gets louder as he’s speaking. “My aunt’s funeral, Mycroft?”

“I know. I had to - go dark. I checked in when I could, but I couldn’t send you a message, and by the time I got to where I could safely contact you…”

“What? What then? You still didn’t contact me!”

“I thought it pertinent to discuss this in person-”

“Well, I don’t!” Greg slams the door shut. Mycroft feels like he might be sinking into the floor as he stares at the off-white wood. The door reopens and Greg’s gaze is burning. “But go on, what’s your excuse?”

Mycroft feels his heart jump with hope. He looks up and down the hall. A neighbour has opened their door a bit and is peeking out, watching their drama unfold.

“May I come inside?” Mycroft wrings his hands as his body feels chills.

“Fuck no.” Greg leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms.

Mycroft sighs and clasps his hands behind his back, the umbrella hanging from one arm.

“Well? I don’t have all day.” There’s no warmth in Greg’s voice, and his fragrance smells more like milk than cake. Mycroft tries to remember everything he planned to say. It’s escaped him. This has always been the way with Greg. Greg knocks down all his defences. Walks through his intentions, leaving objectives in disarray and expectations strewn about.

“Sherlock is alive,” he finally gets out as he stares at the ground. “He was lost to our operatives, and I went in to extract him.”

When Mycroft looks up, Greg’s eyes are wide, and his arms are still crossed. “Want to run that by me again?” There’s an edge of steel in his voice.

“On the day Sherlock threw himself off St. Bart’s, he did so to defend three people. Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and you. If he never performed this task, you three would have been eliminated by snipers. Assassins. Moriarty’s plan to burn the heart out of Sherlock, it seems. We anticipated this to be one of the possible outcomes, and put procedures in place to ensure Sherlock’s safety should it come to pass. When it did, it was imperative that Sherlock dismantle the international business Moriarty left behind. The operation depended on Sherlock’s faked death.”

Greg is staring at him with a slack jaw and blinking eyes. The door down the hallway creaks and Greg pokes his head out to catch a look at the nosy neighbour. “You got anywhere else to be, Mrs. Elwes?”

The woman, silvery blond hair and red-framed reading glasses, frowns at him, and slams the door shut.

Greg avoids Mycroft’s eyes. “You know what I hate most?”

Mycroft tucks his hands into his pockets. “Tell me.”

“Liars.” Mycroft flinches. Of course. _His wife lied for years_. Greg works in a profession that compels him to comb through physical evidence and witness statements and suspect interrogations to pinpoint the truth of a matter.

Mycroft has been lying to him for the entirety of their relationship.

“Your safety- “

“Stop.” Greg’s shoulders are slumped, and his eyes are on the ground. “I can’t even - are you serious? Really serious? Christ. Only you and Sherlock.” He drops his arms and shakes his head as he looks inside his flat, and then back at Mycroft. “I needed you that day. If you had told me what was really happening, I could have kept it secret. I would have understood. I wouldn’t have liked it, though, so maybe we wouldn’t be exactly okay, but we would have been better than we are now.”

Mycroft’s stomach drops. “Can there…is there still a ‘we’?”

“I don’t think so.” Greg puts his hands on his hips, and he won’t look Mycroft in the eye. Mycroft can smell cigarette smoke. “I can’t trust that you won’t run out on me when I need you, or that you won’t keep really big fucking secrets from me. Sherlock is really alive?”

Mycroft lets out a shaky exhale. “If I could do it over-“

“But you can’t.”

“You are important to me.”

“That’s not the message I got. Actions and words, Mycroft.”

Mycroft can feel himself starting to shake. His knees are watery and his heart clutches with pain. His vision blurs, and he falls to his knees. Never mind the old faded carpet that likely holds years of mud and dander and fur embedded in its fibres; never mind that it’s a public hallway and Mrs. Elwes has opened her door again without Greg noticing. Mycroft holds his hands together before him, and with a thick voice says, “I was wrong. I know that now. I didn’t know how to tell you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, Greg. Give me another chance.”

“Stand up, you’ll get your suit dirty.” Greg jumps forward and begins pulling him up by his arms.

“Greg-“ He revels in the feel of Greg’s thick fingers clasping his biceps, and then they’re gone.

“I need some time.” Greg’s voice is hard, and Mycroft stills. “I need time to think about it.”

Mycroft hugs himself as Greg steps back inside his flat. “Take care of yourself,” he tosses out as he closes the door.

Mycroft stares at the doorknob. He stands there for another moment before heading down the hall, trying to contain the sob crawling up his throat. Mrs. Elwes’ door closes with a soft click.  


 

* * *

  


Mycroft has never felt so untethered. He sees shadows and spectres and hellish creatures and he has trouble ignoring them. He thinks of Greg at inopportune times, like while speaking with the Prime Minister over issues regarding the EU, or when leading a terrorist briefing with the heads of MI5.

The final gut-punch is a visit to Baker Street, two weeks after Mycroft brought Sherlock home. Sherlock has settled in, and it seems John Watson has moved back too. Both men have pink lips and stubble burn on their jawlines. Sherlock is an incandescent flare of purple, and John won’t look at Mycroft.

Mycroft reads the smugness on Sherlock’s face as he leans back in his old chair, russet dressing gown on over blue pyjama bottoms.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s lip curls. “It’s only sex.”

John coughs. He’s sitting in his chair pretending to read the newspaper. He lifts the paper to block his face.

Mycroft fortifies himself with a breath. “I’ve come to see how you’re faring, little brother. I see congratulations are in order.” He taps his brolly on the ground.

“Jealous?” Sherlock stretches his legs out before him, his green-blue eyes dancing over the features of Mycroft’s face. He has the same disapproving eyes of their mother.

“No. Merely surprised that Doctor Watson was able to override his internalised homophobia,” Mycroft delivers with a pleasant smile.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as John drops his newspaper to glare at Mycroft. The moment is interrupted by the street door opening and closing and footsteps thundering up the stairs.

Greg Lestrade appears in the doorway, and he does a double take at Mycroft. Mycroft nods in his direction with nonchalance, acting as if the floor didn’t just drop out from below him and that he doesn’t need to restrain from throwing himself at the man, crying for his forgiveness. Greg’s aura is a soft greyish yellow with a distinct brown streak. The grey is his grief. Mycroft understands that his lies are responsible for the streak.

Sherlock never misses a thing, of course.

“Well, well.” His sharp eyes flicker from one man to the other. “John, it seems something has transpired between our detective inspector and my brother.” Then his face twists with disgust. “ _Graham._ With Mycroft?”

“What?” John says. He looks from Greg to Mycroft and back, reminding Mycroft of one of those inane bobbleheads.

Greg snaps his head to Sherlock and growls. “Oi. I’ve got a case and if you want it, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Sherlock waves his hand at him. “Ugh. Gladly. Though I have to wonder how you got past all the garters and fat rolls.”

Mycroft flushes. “I’ll leave you to your ‘work’,” he says with a sneer.  

He doesn’t hear what Greg is saying to Sherlock as he hurries down the stairs, but he hears Sherlock’s braying. “Oh John, this is rich! The most powerful man in Britain deigned to mingle with the commoners, and the peasants rejected him!”

Earlier, for a second, he had hoped he might walk out with Greg when he finished, and maybe ask him to coffee, maybe ask him if he’s had enough time.

But Greg had looked at him with surprise, and not even a glimpse of desire, or hope, or happiness.

Mycroft is not a devout man, but the world he walks in is Hell _._

 

 


	9. Urania

 

_Urania, o'er her star-bespangled lyre,_

_With touch of majesty diffused her soul;_

_A thousand tones, that in the breast inspire,_

_Exalted feelings, o er the wires'gan roll—_

_How at the call of Jove the mist unfurled,_

_And o'er the swelling vault—the glowing sky,_

_The new-born stars hung out their lamps on high,_

_And rolled their mighty orbs to music's sweetest sound._

_—_ James G. Percival _, An Ode to Music,_ 1823

 

Mycroft is staring through the window at the stars, thinking about destiny. _Is fate real? Is it fate or is it free will? Is it all chaos?_ Was he fated by some kind of higher power to have this extrasensory ability, or is it a result of a latent mutation in his particular genotype?

 _I am powerful, and I am alone._ He knows it’s because of the horrors and colours and smells available to him. Who would he have been if he saw the world the way others did. _Who am I now?_ He still wonders if it is a mental illness, a kind of schizophrenia perhaps, or something else since mental illness was being redefined and recategorised all the time.

Sherlock sought to be like him, indifferent and aloof, but he’s succeeded in breaking the mold. He has his doctor now, a short little man with a gargoyle on his shoulder, but the gargoyle was lighter and Sherlock’s creatures were quieter. They soothed one another, it seemed.

Greg was all light, but Mycroft wonders if perhaps he absorbed Greg’s aura like some kind of psychic vampire, permanently damaging him, and now he deserves this level of hell.

 _Greg will likely move on. Date again._ Mycroft’s chest hurts with the thought of Greg with someone else. _And he’ll continue his association with Sherlock, because he believes in justice and puts up with Sherlock’s audacious behaviour so he can save people, or bring closure to loved ones._ Even John forgave Sherlock, after leaving both his girlfriend and his seeming heterosexuality.

Mycroft has lost something that can’t be regained. He pulls at his bottom lip with thumb and forefinger, eyes tracing patterns in the stars. You can’t often see them with the London fog. Tonight they seem brighter than usual.

He’ll never love again. It sounds overly dramatic, but it rings as truth in his ears. Gilbert was the only other person he thought he’d loved, and he’d been sixteen. He’s in his forties now, and this relationship snuck up on him, surprised him. He thought himself always in control, allowing himself this indulgence because he believed himself to be a master of his person.

 _I have my career._ Whether or not it’s destiny, he will serve and protect England. And he will numb himself to his feelings regarding Greg Lestrade. Any other sweet smelling gay or bisexual man with a soft glow will be avoided - though those are few and far between anyway.

Well, the lack of options will serve to make entanglement less likely.

“Go home.” Anthea is standing in front of him, hands on her hips. “You’re running yourself ragged, Mr. Holmes.”

“I wish to keep busy.” Which is the wrong thing to say, as he’s admitting there’s a problem and he’s turned to work to ignore it.

“England needs you to be well, and you’re not well.” She begins packing up his satchel and putting away the files on his desk. “Go home. Rest. Have sweet dreams.”

“I don’t dream.” And he probably does, but he doesn’t remember them, aside from the one about Moriarty. The world he walks through is full of enough dreams and nightmares already.

That night he ends up at his drawing desk, and instead of drawing the monsters he sees, he sketches a burst of light, white against the night sky, over and over and over.

  


* * *

 

 

“Geoff has been impossible. I’m to have no cases until I give you an apology in person and you confirm with him that I’ve done so. So here’s your apology, though why he thinks you care what I say is perplexing.” Sherlock stares at him with narrow eyes and a petulant frown.

It’s been one week since the incident at Baker Street. “His name is Greg, and I have no time for your antics today.” Mycroft doesn’t look up at him while he continues making notes on a speech the Prime Minister actually thought he could make.

“What is it that’s different?”

“Pardon?”

“Why Greg? You hate people.”

Mycroft thinks. Golden light, big heart, strong body and a guttural laugh that warms Mycroft’s belly. Baked goods. Late night talks. A man who is always himself. “When I see Greg, I am inspired.”

“Inspired?” Sherlock says the word as if it tastes disgusting.

“To be more than I am. To be better.” Mycroft meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“You had a relationship.” His eyebrow quirks.

“We did.”

“What changed?”

Mycroft places his pen on the desk as the words of the written speech blur before him. “On the day Greg’s aunt was to be buried, I received news indicating you had been discovered and taken. I left immediately. I could not tell him why.”

There’s a beat. “You’ve changed.”

“I believe we’ve both changed.” One of Sherlock’s demons is peering over Mycroft’s desk at him with sharp green eyes. Mycroft sighs, picks the pen up, and continues his notes.

Sherlock sweeps out of the room, shades of moving figures behind him.

 

**_Sent 2:45 pm_ **

_I am to inform you that Sherlock apologized._

 

He places the mobile on the desk, and watches it. He feels a wave of relief when it vibrates.

 

**_Received 2:47 pm_ **

_Was it a real apology or just one of his_

_shitty non-apologies?_

 

He smiles as he types.

 

**_Sent 2:47 pm_ **

_It is Sherlock. And the apology was unnecessary._

_In a way, it was refreshing to see him more like_

_his old self._

 

**_Received 2:49 pm_ **

_A berk? Jesus, Mycroft, why do you two fight_

_like that?_

 

**_Sent 2:49 pm_ **

_I prefer not to._

 

**_Received 2:50 pm_ **

_I know. He’s a twat._

_Sorry._

_But he really made me angry._

 

**_Sent 2:51 pm_ **

_Yes. He has that effect._

 

Mycroft begins to think that the conversation has ended when his mobile vibrates.

 

**_Received 2:56 pm_ **

_Tell me the truth. Did Sherlock’s work overseas_

_do more good for the world than if he had_

_stayed here solving cases in London?_

 

Mycroft pauses before typing. As a whole, the world gained in the forces of good as a net result of Sherlock’s actions. However, the impact isn’t obvious in Greg’s jurisdiction.

 

**_Sent 2:57 pm_ **

_Unequivocally._

 

There’s no answer. Of course, Mycroft knew it was foolish to hope. He lied to Greg, and then he shamed himself by kneeling on a filthy carpet and making embarrassing pleas that fell on deaf ears.

Greg has had time. And has not made contact of his own volition.

  


* * *

 

 

His doorbell rings. He decides not to answer.

It rings again.

Mycroft is sprawled across the sofa in his parlour, whisky glass in hand. The bottle is mostly empty now, sitting on the coffee table next to a pile of poetry books. Books he’s thinking of throwing out now that his relationship is over.  _What is the use of seeking this sense of connection anyway? it's a falsehood._

The alcohol dulls his senses, and he doesn’t have to think about the things he sees, and the things he feels. The doorbell stops ringing, but now he can hear the door shut - _did he hear it open?_ \- and footsteps are coming down the hallway. He thinks he might need to arm himself, but then, what use is it? Maybe this is destiny.

But as the footsteps enter the room, he realises that they are the steps of his brother.

“Sherlock,” he slurs. It’s been six days since Sherlock brandished his non-apology in Mycroft’s office.

“Good lord, Mycroft. Have you made your home a distillery, then?” Sherlock flops into the chair opposite. “Wallowing, are we?”

“Leave if it bothers you. You know the way to the door.” Mycroft closes his eyes.

“No. In fact, I think I’ll have one.”

“Why are you here? Where is your doctor?”

“Pub. Stamford. Terribly tedious.” Mycroft hears the clink of the glass and the rustle of fabric as Sherlock goes to pour himself a drink. “As is this pity party you’ve gathered for yourself. Come, Mycroft, where is that arrogance, that unfailing pride, your sense of superiority? All this for a goldfish?”

Mycroft sighs. He knows this is unlike himself. He can’t help it.

A memory comes to him. Once, when Sherlock was no more than eleven, and Mycroft was visiting from uni, Sherlock asked him how he knew so much. Mycroft, wanting to share his horrible secret with someone else, began telling Sherlock about the things he saw. Lights, spectres, shades, demons, phantasms, and creatures that no one else could see. Voices no one else could hear. Colours eddying around people’s bodies, visible only to his eyes.

Sherlock had listened with a fascinated interest, until his face grew dark. He scowled, and said, “Mycroft, stop lying. I’m smart enough to do whatever it is you do. You don’t have to tell me a fairytale.” Mycroft hung his head and pinched his lips. But he began making up “deductions,” things he could see after the fact. When some voice told him someone’s secret, he’d look for physical manifestations of that secret. He’d tell Sherlock what to look for. And that’s how Sherlock began honing his keen sense of observation, practicing together in the times that Mycroft visited the family home.

“It isn’t just about Greg, Sherlock.” Mycroft sits up, presses his lips together and lifts his chin. Everything is fuzzy. The room tilts, and then rights again. “I am cursed, or ill, perhaps.”

Sherlock’s eyes nearly bug from his head. “Beg your pardon?”

“Most likely ill.” Mycroft runs a palm across his face. He can’t concentrate too hard on any one object. “I tried to tell you, once. And you accused me of spinning a fairytale.” He laughs. “If only. It would be better than living alone among these...chimeras.” Mycroft turns to face Sherlock, though his legs are still stretched out across the sofa.

Sherlock’s head tilts as his eyes flicker over Mycroft’s person. “Tell me again.”

“I see things. And hear things. I even smell things, that no one else can smell. Or hear, or see.” Mycroft rubs the back of his neck as he stares at the rich, wood-paneled ceiling. “Greg is like a sunrise. He smells like someone is baking quickbreads. He is a good man, and the only one I can stand to be around, or to have touch me. There are no other sets of eyes watching me, no knotted fingers or wet appendages crowding into my personal space. No one can see them. But I can. And perhaps James Moriarty. I couldn’t tell. He was a blank.”

“A blank?” Sherlock’s face pinches.

“Nothing around him. Nothing to tell me anything about him. Happens sometimes, and I don’t know why.”

Sherlock is silent, his eyes studying Mycroft. Finally, he asks, “what do you see when you look at me?”

Mycroft smiles. “When you were a child, your aura was a riotous flash of lavenders and violets. As you’ve aged...it has changed, and there are creatures...manifestations of your personal demons, I think.” He looks at them now. One sitting on Sherlock’s shoulder, another staring at him from under the chair. “Right now, there are only two. But sometimes there are as many as seven. I’m not sure how many there really are, or if they’re always the same ones.”

“But everyone has their personal demons, don’t they?” His deep voice slithers with disdain. 

“In some ways, yes. But, I think, for some people, it is more intrinsic than it is with others. Addictions often manifest themselves in this unseen world. Strong feelings, too, like guilt, regret, and shame. Perversions, even.”

“And Lestrade has none of these?”

“I have no doubt that Greg has felt these... _feelings_ from time to time, but they do not persist with him. He is as comfortable with himself and with his choices as anyone can be. He doesn’t allow these things to take hold, and to rule him.”

“And, what follows you?”

“I know not, or there is nothing. Or,” Mycroft considers. “Perhaps, it’s the fact that I can see everything that is my lot to bear.”

The time passes. The clock ticks on the mantle and the fire crackles.

“Those drawings of yours. Morbid, Mummy always said.”

“My reality, more like.”

Sherlock nods. “It is interesting that you refer to Greg as a sunrise. I once called John my conductor of light.”

Something inside Mycroft lifts. “We are not always so different.”

Sherlock says nothing. He stands. “Fascinating. I really must be going now. Ta.”

Mycroft hears the front door shut as he pulls the sofa throw over his head and burrows into the cushions.

  


* * *

 

 

It’s Thursday, another six days after Sherlock's last visit. Mycroft enters his home, and feels the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He smells formaldehyde and cigarettes, and his suspicion is confirmed with he hears the snigger of one of Sherlock’s demons from the upstairs hall.

Sherlock is in the studio, open folios scattered on the floor around him, leafing through years of rough sketches and charcoal drawings. “Mycroft, this is what you see when you look at John?” He holds up a shadowy page depicting the lined face of John Watson, and the gargoyle-like presence at his shoulder.

“Always.” Mycroft hangs his umbrella on the doorknob. Sherlock’s demons are tittering under the table, green glowing eyes blinking in and out of the darkness there.

“Hm. The creature even kind of looks like him.” Sherlock considers the drawing before sliding it back in place.

“I give you madness, and you behave as if I gave you a weather report.”

“Come now, Mycroft, what you’ve given me is a gift! I always thought you knew more than you’d let on, and now, I know that you’ve an advantage.” Sherlock’s grin reminds Mycroft of an alligator’s. “It seems I am the smarter one. Your role as seeming prognosticator is some kind of biological aberration, an evolutionary advantage, perhaps. The game was rigged in your favour from the start.”

Mycroft blinks.

“What did Lestrade think?” Sherlock gestures about the room.

“I told him these were the things I dreamed, and that drawing them was one way of cleansing my mind.” Mycroft’s heart lurches as he remembers his beloved standing in this room, whistling as he stared at the macabre sketches on the walls. A beacon of light in the darkness.

"How did John Watson come to forgive you?" He asks without looking at his brother.

There's a pause. Then Sherlock sighs, uncharacteristic when he's not in a strop. "He saw my back."

Mycroft can't picture how such a thing came about, even if his brother has a penchant for lounging around his flat in a sheet. "How?"

"I interrupted his dinner with his girlfriend. He reacted unfavourably. In some effort to assuage his own guilt, he came by to see me. I was changing bandages in the bathroom. When I heard his footsteps, I put on my dressing gown." He chuckles then. "The one time he observes. He noticed my posture, and being a doctor, was determined to see the cause of it. It lead to a very long, and very uncomfortable conversation."

Mycroft hides his wince in thinking about his brother's time in Serbia. Sherlock doesn't want his sympathy. And Mycroft doesn't have the scars to elicit sympathy. At least, none that are visible to the average human eye. 

He heads downstairs for the barcart in the parlour.

  


* * *

 

 

“Tell me again about why you entered a relationship with Lestrade.”

Mycroft lifts his head at the sound of his brother’s voice. His head is throbbing and his tongue feels withered and parched for the fourth time this week. He looks at the bottle on the floor by his feet. Had he fallen asleep in his chair? _Gods, why does he keep popping up?_

_Oh. He hasn’t left._

Sherlock is sitting in the wingback chair across from him. His eyes are unflinching as he peers at Mycroft.

“I am already in agony. Why have you come to torture me?” He leans over and grabs the whisky bottle by the neck.

“Ugh, Mycroft, what was that about caring and advantage and all that? Why Lestrade?”

“I told you, he inspired me. To be a better man.” Mycroft grumbles as he pours himself another.

“Do you really need another?”

“I’m thirsty,” Mycroft snaps and sets the bottle back on the ground. “I feel as though I am kept lingering in the vestibule to hell, and I wonder which circle of _Inferno_ or _Purgatorio_ I’ll visit each day. But when I see him, I am transported. I look upon the firmament each time I look upon his face. I, who must look at monsters day in and day out, am given the dawn each time he looks at me.”

“Then why aren’t you trying to get him back? Isn’t that what people do in this situation?”

“I have spoken with him.” Mycroft holds up his hand when Sherlock opens his mouth. Even in his uninhibited state, he’s aware it’s dangerous to reveal vulnerabilities to Sherlock, but he finds he cares little now. He takes a swig of the whisky. “For his safety, I must thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stares. “I never knew you for a fatalist.”

“Family trait, perhaps.” Mycroft remembers Mummy’s woe-is-me theatrics when faced with yet another one of Sherlock’s fiascos, certain she had lived a former life of a profligate, and her sons were sent as punishment.

“How did it all come to be?” Sherlock interrupts his thoughts.

“I don’t wish to speak of it. It is too painful.”

They sit in silence for twenty-eight minutes. Mycroft rolls his shoulders back and lifts his glass, draining the last drops. He hears the front door open, shut, and there are feet stomping and low voices in the hall. He looks at Sherlock, whose face is an impassive mask. But his little creatures are racing in circles around his chair, twittering with glee.

“What have you done?” Mycroft whispers.

Sherlock pockets his phone, which Mycroft had not even seen in his hand. “In here, John!”

In the doorway, the small frame of the doctor appears, his weathered face hosting a tentative smile. His gargoyle seems diminutive today. And behind him, a man with a halo of gold.

“Well, it’s about time!” Sherlock stands, taking his gloves from his pockets. “I’ve had about all the sibling bonding I can take! I shall have to shower to remove the repulsive stink of self-pity. Come along, John. Lestrade can take it from here, probably more successfully than he can handle a crime scene.”

Mycroft starts to stand, dropping his glass to the rug. He hears it roll under the chair, but he’s focused on the figure entering the parlour as Sherlock swoops to grab John by the arm and head down the hall.

Mycroft is unsteady on his feet, and Greg comes to his side. The man guides him back to sitting in his chair, and then kneels to pick up the glass.

“You don’t have to - ”

“Mycroft, let me.” Greg sets the glass on the side table, and then takes a napkin to blot at the floor. “How long have you been in here drinking?”

Mycroft stares at the fire, flushing with shame. “What hour is it?”

“About eleven.”

“Oh. Then. It was six at some point.”

Greg snorts. “Christ, Mycroft. You need to take care of yourself.”

Mycroft holds his hands between his knees.  _I was powerful and I was proud, and now I am a pile of regrets._  Greg reaches up from his kneeling position, and pulls Mycroft’s hands out, holding them with his own on the younger man’s lap. Greg’s skin is cool, but then the air is rather chilled outside.

Mycroft’s heart begins to beat a little quicker.

“It hurts me to see you like this,” Greg says in a low voice, his dark eyes gazing at Mycroft.

“I have been thinking-” Mycroft swallows, and refuses to look at him, staring instead at their hands folded together. “I have been thinking about how my life would be if things were different. If I had made different choices. If I weren’t...who I am.”

Greg squeezes his hands. “You shouldn’t sit around thinking things like that.”

“I just...wonder if perhaps our paths are already charted in the stars, or if it’s some kind of Spinoza redundancy, or-”

“Mycroft.” Greg leans into his space. “I can’t answer that. No one can. Which is why it’ll only drive you crazy if you sit around thinking about it.” He takes his left hand from the pile in Mycroft’s lap, and places it on Mycroft’s cheek, gently pulling Mycroft to look at him. “John had his phone on speaker. I heard everything you said.”

Mycroft bows his head. “It’s all true.”

“I know.” Greg places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Let me take care of you.”

Mycroft’s heart beats faster. His stomach flips with a frightened sort of thrill, and the air seems thin. “What? You - you don’t want to do that.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Greg takes in a deep breath. “I took the time I needed, and I thank you for that. When I saw you at Sherlock’s, I didn’t think you’d want him to know about us, and I tried to hide it best I could, but he’s a twat, as you know. And I know you were embarrassed, and I didn’t know if it was me or you or just the situation.” Greg squeezes his shoulder. “I’m not quite okay, yet. I’m hurt. I’ve been grieving, and I made a big decision while grieving, which wasn’t good. Everyone knows it’s not a good idea, but I did it anyway. I said some things I wish I hadn’t.” He leans his forehead to Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I understand why you did what you did. I still feel angry. I get to thinking about how stupid I looked - ”

“You’re not stupid!” Mycroft blurts. “I’m not - I’m ill equipped for relationships. It was never you.”

“You did it to protect your brother. It’s not like it was with...anyway, she lied for her own ends. You lied to protect family. Sherlock. Me. And John and Mrs. Hudson.” Greg is stroking his shoulder, down to his elbow and back. “It was the fact that you didn’t contact me for so long that still hurts. In a time that I really needed my partner.”

Mycroft doesn’t know what to say, so he waits for Greg to continue.

“John told me a little bit about Sherlock’s time away. He’s not completely over it, yet, either. But, he’s happy. Somehow. He’s with the man he loves, and they’re working through things.”

Mycroft doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s trying to keep as still as he can, afraid that if he moves, he’ll either tie Greg to the chair, or give Greg some cause to leave him.

“I’ve missed you, but I get so angry when I think about it.” There’s an edge to Greg’s voice that makes Mycroft want to curl in on himself. “I didn’t know what to think sometimes. But John, and even Sherlock, they talked to me a bit. And now I’m here. I want to be here. With you.”

Mycroft can barely breathe.

“Do you want to be with me?”

Mycroft throws his arms around Greg, falling into the man’s lap and letting out a sound that might be described as a sob. Greg holds him as he buries his face into a strong, muscular shoulder, his legs straddling Greg’s thighs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he hears himself say. Greg rocks him, and he can’t remember the last time someone rocked him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Greg kisses the side of his head. “We’ve still got some things to talk about. That can wait. For now, let’s get you to bed.”

Mycroft lets Greg manhandle him up the stairs and down the hall and into the en-suite of his bedroom. He accepts a glass of water, which he drinks, and then gets pushed under the warm water of the shower. Greg strips and joins him. Mycroft is so grateful, and so afraid he’s dreaming, he remains silent and pliant to Greg’s administrations. His eyes skip across Greg’s naked form: the light tanlines at his wrists, the silver and brown chest hair, the knife scar at one hip. They’re both half-hard, but Mycroft is exhausted. He’s barely able to believe that the man’s right here next to him, touching him, making soothing noises, humming even as he wipes a sponge over Mycroft’s weary body.

“You’ve lost weight.” Greg kisses his clavicle. “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

“I should- “

“You can make it up to me in other ways. We still have to talk. I want you sober, and standing on your own two feet, with a full stomach, kay?”

Mycroft nods.

Greg moves them out of the shower stall and towels them both off. He dresses Mycroft in his pyjamas, and lays him down in bed. "I'm going to go bank the fire in the parlour. I'll be back."

Mycroft startles a short while later when Greg gets in next to him. He feels the stinging of tears, and he shudders. Greg slides his arms around him and pulls him close. “Hey now. You’ve got to be knackered. I know I am. We’ll sleep now, talk tomorrow.” He kisses the top of Mycroft's head.

“I love you,” Mycroft whispers.

“I love you, too.” Greg moves closer. “I never really stopped.”

 

 

* * *

  
  


When Mycroft sees the sunlight and feels the emptiness in the bed beside him, his head hurting and his throat dry, he curls into a ball. He can’t hear Greg. _Did I dream it?_ It would be his comeuppance if he was able to see his own spectre, and it had Greg’s face.

“Good morning.” The voice that interrupts his thought is soft and gravelly. Mycroft realises that it wasn’t sunlight he was seeing after all. It’s Greg’s own light. And there’s a smell of baking scones.

  
  



	10. Sappho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life moves on.

 

_I love the sensual._

_For me this_

_and love for the sun_

_has a share in brilliance and beauty._

Sappho _ _, Fragment 9_ _(trans Dubnoff), C7 B.C.

 

 

Greg lays the bouquet of white roses on the grave. Mycroft holds his hand.  _I can't believe he wants me here. That I can hold his hand. He wants to spend the day with me._

“Thanks for coming with me,” Greg says. He’s wearing a thick, long coat over a green jumper and grey trousers.

Mycroft stands with his head bowed.

Greg gives his palm a squeeze. “I need to tell you about that day. It’ll eat at me, otherwise.”

Mycroft nods, his mouth a tight, thin line.

“After you left, I broke some things of yours. ‘M not proud.” Greg scuffs at the dirt with his shoe. “I threw some plates. And some wine glasses. A bit therapeutic. It wasn’t just about you. I was angry about losing Aunt Ollie.”

Mycroft releases a breath. The grip on each other’s hand is tight. He hadn’t noticed the missing crockery or glasses. He’s barely eaten.

“I went to the funeral, and people asked about you, y’know. I told them you had a work emergency. You should have seen the looks I got. Tried to explain that you had a really important job, but maybe you should lay off the ‘minor government official’ line, because that just made me look stupid.”

Greg looks into the distance. Mycroft follows his gaze out over the rows of headstones, and remembers another time when they stood together in a cemetery. The day was cool and bright, like this one.

“I was so - confused. You’ve got an important job, I know, but I couldn’t believe it when you left and I had to face my aunt’s funeral alone.” Greg shrugs. “But then, I thought, well, this is what it means to date the man who Sherlock calls the British Government. I didn’t like it, but I thought, _this man is worth it_.”

Mycroft lets out a shuddering breath. Greg tightens his grip to the point of painful but doesn’t look at him. “Now I know that it was because of Sherlock, I understand better. I still wouldn’t have liked it. It’s a funeral, y’know? For someone who was so important to me, and I couldn’t believe that you’d leave me like that.”

“Never again, Greg,” Mycroft says. He stares down at his feet.

“Family first, though, right?”

“You are family to me,” Mycroft whispers.

“I know. And when it comes down to it, I’m alive, and though I was grieving, Sherlock was in trouble. He could have died if it weren’t for you, right?”

Mycroft’s heart falters. He feels the tell-tale prickle at his eyes.

“Anyway, I thought for sure you’d get in touch with me. I tried calling Anthea, but her mobile went right to voicemail at first. You didn’t answer yours. So I figured it was that ‘national security’ bit. And I waited.”

“I couldn’t contact- “

“I know, I know, posh.” Greg says. “I’m just trying to tell you how it was for me.”

“I am ashamed.” Mycroft looks to the sky in in an effort to contain the wetness threatening his eyes. Greg pulls him into his arms and holds him. “I was so panicked, that day, I couldn’t see clearly. I focused on what I could do, and what I thought I had to do, and I left you behind when you needed me. There is no excuse.” Mycroft pulls back from Greg to take out his handkerchief and wipe his face. “I had to cut myself off from...feelings. I would otherwise had trouble functioning."

“I’m not telling you to make you feel bad, Mycroft. I just, have to get this out of me,” Greg says. “Communication, right? I get that it was a secret operation, and I know how you worry about Sherlock. Christ, you must have been in knots over this whole thing while he was - away.”

Mycroft nods.

“But, Mycroft, I can’t take something like that again. The radio silence bit. D’you understand?”

“Yes.”

They press their bodies so closely together that Mycroft imagines if someone in the distance were to look their way, they would appear as one figure. If that someone had Mycroft’s ability, the silhouette of their bodies would be wrapped in soft radiance.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
“Why do you insist on living in London and playing your role in the government if you are so tormented?” Sherlock makes an appearance at Mycroft’s office. He is endlessly curious about Mycroft’s affliction. Though, Mycroft sometimes doesn’t think of it as an affliction anymore. Not always.

The visions are as prevalent as they ever were. The world is full of them, so long as there are people. The colours flicker and change, and the creatures watch him if they think he can see them. He still avoids catching their attention for the most part, but they no longer bother him as badly as they once did. He begins to view them with a hint of compassion: that perhaps, as they are the signs of suffering, he can help some people directly. Like that woman at the bar with the worm in her hair.

“When I realised, that aside from becoming a hermit, I would always be subjected to these...simulacra, I decided that I would not let this control me.” Mycroft considers his next words. He has been more open with Sherlock, and it’s changing the nature of their relationship. “By engaging in a career where I could influence world events, and act as architect in the political and social arena, I could feel as though I had some control over my life. This...ability couldn’t take that from me. It wouldn’t win.”

Sherlock watches him. His own shadows are quieter, and fewer of them appear now. Mycroft pours himself a cup of tea, and another for his brother.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft sees the black beast grab Sherlock’s limp body between its jaws and shake him, his limbs whipping through the air as his head lolled side to side. Mycroft wakes with a shout.

Greg is there. It’s the first time he’s slept over since that first night one month before. Greg holds him to his bare chest. His face is dry, but his heart pounds and his throat rasps. “He was tortured, Greg.”

Greg stills. “Sherlock?”

“Yes. It took us two weeks to find out where he was, and three weeks to infiltrate the cell and extract him.” Mycroft shudders, clinging to Greg’s warm, solid body.

Greg strokes his hair. “John didn’t say. You were the first one to see him?”

“Yes.” Mycroft swallows as the shadows in his mind form a picture of the Serbian jailor holding a lead pipe. “I had to stand in the room and watch part of it happen.” Mycroft’s hands clutch the bedcovers. He’s thinking of how angry he was. So angry that the men thought to touch his brother, and then so angry with his brother for having been caught. And mostly, angry with himself for letting it get that far. He took that anger at the time and funneled it into a narrow focus, a series of steps to reach a desired end. Sherlock safe, and his captors arrested, interrogated, and punished. “We had him in hospital for a week before we left. I could have contacted you then- “

“Mycroft. I know. You pride yourself on having the most important conversations face to face.”

“Yes.” It’s the best way for him to use his ability to his advantage.

“Is Sherlock...will he be alright?”

“I’ve set him up with a psychiatrist, who he refuses to see. I’ve no doubt the good doctor will keep an eye on him.” Mycroft relaxes his hold on Greg as his breathing settles.

“John? The guy who punched him repeatedly the first night he came back?”

Mycroft sighs and turns over on his stomach, gathering his pillow beneath his chin. “Sherlock would believe he deserves it.”

“Hm. Sounds like a victim of torture.”

Mycroft stills. Greg rubs his shoulder. “I don’t mean anything by it. John’s sorry. I just worry about you, about Sherlock, about John.”

“What about yourself?”

“I’ll be alright.” Greg kisses his shoulder, and lifts himself up to continue kissing over Mycroft’s scapula. “I have you to worry for me.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

Greg noses down his spine. “It isn’t about what you deserve.”

 

* * *

 

Greg forgives him. After three more months of dates and frequent sleepovers - and Christmas with the Holmes parents - he moves back in. As a DI with seniority, Greg is generally home for dinner and on weekends. Mycroft adjusts his schedule to accommodate this as much as possible, though trips happen and late night meetings occur.

Tonight, he waits for his inspector to come home. He’s stretched out on the sofa. Evenings before Greg were spent by the fire in his library, upright in a leather wingback, still dressed in his waistcoat and jacket. Now he lazes, jacket gone and sleeves rolled. Greg teases him about the sleeve garters, but says he likes Mycroft like this, relaxed and open but still well-dressed. Mycroft wants to be that for him, and for himself.

He turns the page of the book he’s reading, and hears the front door open. He places the book in his lap as moments later Greg sweeps in, already having yanked off his tie and kicked off his shoes. “Bloody hell, the wind today.”

“Mm.” Mycroft moves over on the sofa as Greg flops down beside him, and they meet in the middle for a kiss.

“You’re home early. Reading one of your poetry books?” He pops open the top three buttons of his shirt, allowing a wisp of silver hair to peek from his vest. “Who is it today?”

“Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz.” Mycroft holds the book up. “A veritable tempest of the late 17th century, she believed women were of equal intellect to men. She joined a nunnery to avoid marriage to a mortal man, believing herself to have a divine right to study and make contributions to the world of great thinkers. While many of her poems are on friendship and love, there are also thoughts on the topics of feminism and religion. And, perhaps, some lesbian love poetry for a certain countess with whom she was well acquainted.”

“Lesbian nun, huh?”

“It’s debated.” Mycroft shrugs one shoulder. “But listen to this stanza from the poem ‘Phyllis.’” He clears his throat. “‘That you’re a woman far away is no hindrance to my love: for the soul, as you well know, distance and sex don’t count.’”

Greg is quiet for a minute, then says, “that’s actually really lovely.” He slides one arm around Mycroft, and inhales deeply at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “God, you smell great. I love coming home to you.”

Mycroft lays his head against Greg’s. “I love our life together.”

They cuddle a few minutes longer, enjoying the warmth and scent of each other. Eventually, they stand, and together, they start dinner.

 

 

* * *

 

“And then, his wife from Italy showed up.” Anthea is rifling through the reports on her lap as she fills him in on the weekend’s gossip. Her brown hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her makeup is flawless as usual.

“Italy? His wife is Austrian.”

“Oh, yes,” she titters, “The wife who lives with him is from Austria.” She flourishes with one hand through the air. “ _This_ wife is living in Italy, and that is the tea.”

“The _what_?”

“The tea. The gossip.” Anthea grins. “If I were to ask you to spill the tea on Mr. Lestrade, I’m asking you for the gossip.”

“ _Spill the tea_? Good lord, what are we - American?”

She laughs. “Certainly not, sir.”

As they continue working, she keeps sneaking looks at him, her eyes sparkling and the corners of her lips twitching.

He can’t help his eyeroll. “What is it?”

She ducks her head and murmurs something. It’s so uncharacteristic for her that Mycroft looks around the room and wonders if he’s dreaming. Determining that this is actually happening, he prompts her again. “Pardon?”

“I’m glad you’re back to being the little spoon, sir.” A smile reappears on her face as she looks him in the eye. “You and Mr. Lestrade are good together.”

Mycroft looks down at his desk as he feels his cheeks heat. “I never thanked you for sending him the flowers.”

“It was nothing, sir. I realise that while you excel at adulting, you don’t quite know how to relationship.”

He looks at her. “Heavens, are you having a stroke?”

“It’s what the kids say these days, sir.” She’s chuckling as she places the reports needing his immediate attention before him. He takes the pile and brings them closer, ready to read. But first, he needs to say something.

“I am untested and unpracticed, as you know.” Mycroft says. “Your efforts to increase my personal happiness have not gone unnoticed.”

Anthea winks at him. “Well, it’s not entirely altruistic. You’re a damn sight easier to work for when you’re with the detective inspector.”

Mycroft’s first impulse is to sniff at her and pretend he didn’t hear that, but instead he chuckles.

 

* * *

 

Greg is present for two incidents wherein Mycroft abandons his usual principles and takes action.

The first time, they’re heading to an upscale bistro, when Mycroft notices a young man standing by the kerb. It’s winter, and he’s without a coat. His face is flushed as red as his hair, and his hands are jammed in his pockets. He’s listing, not heading in any particular direction, but his eyes are on the bus coming down the road. A creature clings to his ankle, goblin-like in appearance with wet skin and sticky fingers. The goblin is small and somewhat translucent. A new phantasm. Mycroft eyes the creature, and without thinking, he whispers, “what is it?”

The creature looks at him with a dour face. It begins the whispers, and before long, Mycroft finds himself stepping in the youth’s way just as the young man takes a step into the road.

Up close, the boy couldn’t be more than seventeen. He quails at Mycroft’s intrusion and takes a step back.

“I’m Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft reaches into his coat pocket and brings out a card. He writes quickly with a pen, and holds it out to the youth, who is gaping at him. The bus passes them with a beep warning them of their proximity. “You were nearly hit by that bus. That would have been quite nasty. On the back of that card is an address for an outstanding shelter for LGBT youth. You can stay there until you figure out where you can go.”

“What?” His eyes widen beneath a red fringe of hair. “I - I’m not-”

Mycroft takes him by the elbow and leads him onto the pavement. “Be true to yourself, young man. Take my scarf. They’re just about to serve lunch there, and you look ravenous.”

Greg is watching the two of them with a furrowed brow. Mycroft hooks his arm through his partner’s. He looks back at the astonished face of the red-haired boy, holding Mycroft’s card in one hand and his red wool scarf in the other. “And if you should need answers to your questions, you may reach me by that number on the card. Life will get better, my boy.”

To make a point, he kisses his lover’s cheek, and smiles when Greg blushes, a bewildered look creeping across his features. Mycroft winks at the boy, and directs Greg inside the bistro. Once inside, Greg gets them a table while Mycroft sends a message to Anthea to track the boy’s movements.

“You going to tell me what that was all about?” Greg asks as they sit.

“A young man from a wealthy family - you can tell by his clothes and his haircut - looking lost in a upper-class neighborhood and without a winter coat.” Mycroft picks up his menu. “A runaway, or more likely, a family fight that ended with the youth leaving the home, probably not by his own choice.”

“He barely looked old enough to be leaving home.”

“Indeed.”

“And you sent him to…”

“A place that will understand his precarious situation.” Mycroft puts the menu down as the waiter arrives. They give their orders.

“What is his precarious situation?” Greg asks when the waiter leaves.

“He’s gay. The father is intolerant, and likely abusive.”

“Fuck. I don’t know how you do it. You and Sherlock.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

The second time, they’re walking through a park. It’s a woman in trouble, a victim of her marriage. Mycroft sees the shadow at her heels, weeping and moaning like a banshee. It doesn’t take long for Mycroft to discern that the woman’s husband is beating her. A complicating factor is her pregnancy, as yet unannounced.

Mycroft doesn’t approach her. Instead, he calls Anthea to their location and gives her instructions. She lifts her eyebrows in question, but says nothing, just goes about carrying out his orders. Later, he informs Greg that the woman is now living with her sister and seeing both a counselor and a divorce lawyer.

Greg doesn’t even ask him how he knew. He just smiles, and gives him a hug.

 

* * *

 

“What’s got into you?” Greg asks. He places a plate of eggs and toast before Mycroft, and one before himself as he sits at the breakfast table.

“There’s talk of a discovered poem by Sappho.” Mycroft types on his mobile, knowing the smile on his face must look ridiculous. “A new fragment. Analysis verified the work as hers. Most of her work was destroyed. This is wonderful news!”

“That isn’t quite what I meant, but I’ll bite. Which one is Sappho?”

“The famous poet of Lesbos. She is believed to have produced nine volumes of work - the ninth is debated. Some ancient Greeks referred to her as ‘The Tenth Muse.’” He’s reading an article on his phone, but he pauses, and looks up at the ceiling.

“Now what?” Greg takes a bite of his eggs.

“Coincidentally, the title ‘Tenth Muse’ was also given to Juana Ines de la Cruz.”

“The lesbian nun?”

“The same. It is an honorary title for several women accomplished in the arts.”

“And the muses are the ones who inspire people in the arts?”

“Yes. As well as the sciences - the flash of intuition, the creative spark. I suppose it might even count as the ‘hunch’ in your line of work.” Mycroft pours them coffee from the cafetiere. “It’s intriguing, how parts of an ancient culture continue to very much influence society today. The muses still occupy an honoured place.”

“Inspiration’s quick, though, ain’t it?” Greg takes a sip of his coffee. “I mean, I can get inspired to do something, but sometimes I lose that sense of inspiration. The muse leaves me, or something.” He laughs.

“Perhaps it would be ideal if the Tenth Muse were Persistence, or Sustained Passion.” Mycroft smiles. He places his cup on the table and takes Greg’s hand. “Or, perhaps the title should be ascribed to the people in our lives who continuously inspire us to be better than we are.”

Greg flashes him a grin and squeezes his hand.

 

* * *

 

They’re standing before the fireplace, wine glasses in hand, jazz playing in the background.

Greg says, “I got this before Aunt Ollie died. It was my uncle’s.” He’s holding a little black box. “I know we didn’t talk about it, and I don’t have a great track record, but I thought you and me were something really special. Are something really special.”

Mycroft’s heart is clamouring in his chest as his body goes still. Greg places his glass of wine on the mantle, and gets down on one knee.

“I see things,” Mycroft blurts. His hands clutch the stem of his wine glass.

Greg looks at him in confusion from the floor.

“You should know.” Mycroft stares down at his feet as his face gets hot and sweat breaks out across the nape of his neck. “It isn’t deduction for me like it is for Sherlock.”

Greg stands. “I don’t really know what you mean.”

 _No lies. No hiding._ Mycroft places his glass on the mantle next to Greg’s.

“I promised to be truthful. I’ll show you.”

Mycroft takes Greg into his studio. He points out the charcoal drawings on the walls and describes to Greg where he’d seen the people and what the creatures have said to him. He brings out the folios and shows him John Watson and his gargoyle, Sherlock and his horde of demons. He says these things quietly and frankly. Greg listens, perplexed, teeth worrying his lower lip.

Mycroft finishes and waits for Greg’s response.

“I want to go for a walk.”

Mycroft nods, even as his lungs feel like they’re caving in on themselves. “Of course. You’ll want to think things over. I don’t blame you.”

“No. I want to go for a walk with you. To a busy place. Tell me what you see.” His voice sounds a little like the voice he uses when talking to a witness.

Mycroft nods.

“I’ll get us a taxi,” Greg reaches for his phone.

“Please, no public transport.” Mycroft takes out his mobile and sends a message for a car. He never knows what might lurk inside a cab that isn’t visible to anyone else.

They get their jackets and soon enough, the car takes them to Trafalgar Square. Greg takes Mycroft’s arm, and Mycroft whispers to him what he sees. A woman walks by them being followed by a phantasm pushing a pram, weeping. Another woman behind her carries twin monsters with forked tails on her back. A man hurries in the other direction, a winged beast breathing fire down his pale neck. Mycroft ducks to the side to let a man covered in spiders pass. His eyes are swollen shut.

“And there, to our left shoulder,” he whispers, “is a man being followed by a grey-skinned creature about his height, and the eyes and mouth are sewn shut with wire.”

“Jesus, Mycroft. How do you ever even go outside?” He looks a little pale, and worried.

Mycroft lifts his chin. “I decided early on that either I could control it, or let it control me.”

Then he looks at Greg’s profile, who’s scanning everyone around them as if trying to see the things Mycroft has described. “Do you - believe me?”

“I think I need more data, as Sherlock would say.”

Mycroft almost smiles. His heart pounds, but in a way, he’s relieved to talk about it.

“Does Sherlock know?”

“Yes.”

Greg is silent, his eyes focused in the distance.

“Let me tell you about DS Donovan and Mr. Anderson.” He tells Greg about the magpies, and how he knew the forensic officer would succumb to his guilt while Donovan would shut hers out. He explains how it doesn’t work in photos or films or video footage. Watching CCTV is a pleasure for him, as he can see the people in his life without his particular filter.

Of course, Greg eventually asks, “and me, what do you see when you see me?”

“Sunshine.” Trembling, Mycroft takes his hand. “And you smell like baked goods.”

“Do I?” Greg’s face breaks out into a ridiculous grin. His colour is back. “No wonder you like hanging out with me.”

“I love you.” His gut swirls with fear.

Greg stops walking. He faces Mycroft. “This bit with you trying to give helpful advice lately. It’s because something about them...tells you what they need?”

“Yes.” He draws in a breath.

“And you feel as though you ought to help them?”

“I didn’t in the past.” Mycroft’s cheeks colour. “I am ashamed to admit I have endeavoured more to ignore what I saw, to try and ‘act normal.’ To hide.” He sighs. “But, I’m not too proud to admit I may have erred. It is better to help one’s fellows, is it not?”

“That’s certainly a more positive outlook.”

Mycroft ducks his head. “I learned it from you.”

Greg’s lips turn slowly into a smile. “I love you, too, Mycroft Holmes.” Then he sinks to one knee. “Now, will you marry me?” He holds out the box, open, with the glint of gold in the lamplight.

Mycroft stares, knowing his mouth is open. Greg’s face is hopeful, his smile small and his eyes shining. “Even knowing what you know now? That I am most likely delusional? Or suffering from some twisted form of synesthesia?”

“You’re a Holmes. Neither one of you is really sane,” Greg quips. “Listen, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you. I’m not ignoring what you’re experiencing. Whether it’s your brain taking clues and manifesting these...images, or it’s some kind of otherworldly gift...it doesn’t matter. You are who you are. And you’ve shared your greatest secret with me, now, haven’t you?”

Mycroft becomes aware of onlookers. Some are smiling, while others are tense, clutched purses and held hands or held breaths. Greg is on one knee, still, holding out the black box.

“Now, are you gonna marry me, or not?”

Mycroft slides to the ground, his arms draped around Greg and he buries his head into Greg’s shoulder. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

Greg envelops him with his embrace, and Mycroft realises both of their faces are wet. There’s applause in the air, and cheerful shouts. Mycroft spares a glance at the watching crowd and sees the fearful faces of spectres among the humans, and even they look interested. He smiles and Greg kisses the corner of his mouth.

Mycroft and Greg walk through the square of people, some throwing congratulations their way, with the weight of a gold band on his left ring finger. He recalls the last verse of Juana Ines de la Cruz’s longest poem, _The Dream_. It is allegory and fable, a cautionary tale regarding the heights of intellect, but it’s portions of the final line that capture him:

_“...to seize the crown a second time,_

_while in our hemisphere a skein_

_of golden Sunlight shines again,_

_...more certainly, as daylight breaks_

_on the illumined World and I – awake.”_

In some ways, Mycroft feels that he has seized the proverbial crown a second time, and this time, as he walks through the world, it will be with open eyes, and an awakened heart.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand golden thanks to betas notjustmom and ReynardinePttr. Thank you for the helpful edits, the prompt feedback as I hemmed and hawed over details, and the fabulous brit picking. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks also to all the wonderful people who commented and/or left kudos before the fic was even finished. Your trust in me is deeply appreciated. A special thanks to those who commented on nearly every chapter - you know who you are. It was like having my own cheer section, and it was invaluable to me as a fledgling writer. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you’d like to listen to the music which helped facilitate The Tenth Muse, please [go here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1falKP0AASfOH0pPiqeDE3). Thank you to these musicians for sharing their amazing talents. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you enjoyed The Tenth Muse, please check out my first fic contribution to any fandom, [To Capture Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989870). It’s a oneshot that I’ve decided to make the start of a series, but it can stand on its own. I’m writing part 2 - Shaping the Negative - right now, and will post it this spring.
> 
>  
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed my writing, please consider subscribing to my username, as I promise there is more to come, including:
> 
> Mystrade in Space! A Field of Stars is a two-part longfic that is already ⅔ written as of this moment. It’s a slow burn set against murder and sabotage on board, and mysterious messages from space. 
> 
> Mystrade in New England! Taking Flight will feature Falconer!Greg and Birder!Mycroft, and is already partly written. Posting planned for Spring 2020. There may also be a Johnlock sequel - we’ll see where it goes!
> 
> And a number of short stories as the muse strikes!
> 
>  
> 
> I can be found dabbling in the [ r/Mystrade space](https://www.reddit.com/r/Mystrade/), but also on [tumblr](https://vulpesmellifera.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vulpesmellifera), [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/Vulpesmellifera), and [Dreamwidth](https://vulpesmellifera.dreamwidth.org/)! (Thanks to the tumblr stupidity, I am now all over the place, lol. Join me!) I am most active on Twitter and tumblr.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you again for reading. I wish you many, many happy days. <3
> 
> Cheers,  
> Vulpes

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for the Tenth Muse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18160820) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)
  * [“...Superimposed over Mr. Anderson’s shoulders and head is the silhouette of a black bird with white flanks...”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308460) by [TheSoupDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon)




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